Annika Northman: Part Two

Chapter 4: Jagged

Light.

Through my eyelids. Golden, colored like warmth. Not like the lights in my room, the white lights.

A breeze . . . I'm dreaming.

A hand on my shoulder . . . and . . . something's wrong. Something's wrong with the hand, it's not . . .

It's not cold enough.

"Hey, kid. Hey, you hear me?"

I don't know that voice.

I open my eyes to light, real light, sunlight – it hurts –

I jump away from the hand, the wrong, warm hand. Trip a little. Blink a lot.

"Whoa, hey, hey –"

I'm on a street. Somehow – somehow I'm on a street.

This is a dream.

But it's not, is it? No, I know it's not.

Cars cruise along on my right, buildings stretch along to my left, and a tall, black man who I don't know stands over me, hands up, palms out, eyes wide. "It's okay, kid. Jesus. Everything's okay."

Oh, he's wrong about that.

I fall away from the street as a car passes, press my palm against a cool stone wall. "Where –" I look down. I'm in a long-sleeved black silk shirt and matching pants. Pajamas. My new tennis shoes are on my feet, blue and absurd-looking against the silk, and I don't remember putting them on . . . I don't remember how the hell I got here.

"Where . . ." I say again, but the rest of the words just aren't strong enough to jump off my tongue.

"Hey, hey, everything's alright, okay?"

I take another step back from the man. The street isn't empty, not by far, which is a good thing. There's an old man in a doorway a short way past this stranger, peering out at us with his giant bushy eyebrows close together. A woman isn't far from him, and her face is covered in giant sunglasses, but her head is pointed our way. Two women sit on a bench across the street – There's a fat man walking a tiny dog – Honestly, there must be at least two dozen people just within shouting distance, more, really, since I can't see everyone in the stores.

The stores. There's a glass door just a few feet in front of me. On the front, in white lettering: Emma's Fashions. That's . . . familiar. Isn't it? I scan the signs on the buildings across the street. Little Shop of BIG Finds . . . The Red Bookshelf . . . Shreveport Pet Barn . . .

The Jagged Café.

That place. Three shops down, with a green roof and a patio. I've been there. With Eric. I remember because I thought I must be wrong about what jagged meant, but he told me I wasn't, and then we agreed it was a silly name. I got a brownie there. We sat outside for a half-hour or so and left because it started to rain.

It was just one of those nights, one of those places Eric takes me for a meal or a treat once every month or so. And we drove here, because sometimes Eric just feels like driving, and it wasn't a long drive, was it? From the club to here?

God, it's been months . . .

"What're you doin' out here? You all alone?"

The man's still in front of me, though he's dropped his hands. He's looking at me like he's never seen a kid before.

"I'm . . ." I lick my lips. "I'm waiting on someone."

"You're – kid, you were totally out of it, you know that? You was like a zombie. You s'posed to be out here? Where're your parents?"