The Collective

Chapter Twenty-Nine

     "Wakey, wakey eggs, and bakey." Max chanted from outside the door.

     My mom used to say that waking me up was like trying to cross a bridge guarded by a troll, with the troll being the more reasonable one in this comparison.

     But Max had food. The smell wafted in under the door, swirling through the air in glorious pirouettes and arabesques.

     "Come in."

     He bumped it open with his hip, a tray of eggs and bacon and orange juice and sausage and fried potatoes greeting me under a mountain of gravy and red chili. "I come baring gifts."

     I slid into a sitting position, salivating in anticipation.

     He stopped halfway into the room. "But... you have to do something first."

     And there's the Max I knew. My body wailed for sustenance. I quieted it down. "What do you want?"

     "We're leaving in five minutes." He sauntered out the door, taking the food.

     My stomach cramped. My head got in on it, throbbing. I fell against the pillows. I didn't want to go anywhere.

     The need for food drove me out of bed. I got dressed in record time, pulling my hair back on my way out. I steadied myself on the stairs, dizziness threatening to drop me. I'd felt reasonably good the last few days, but it would hit me out of nowhere, and I'd get dizzy and nauseous.

     I met Max in the car. "Food."

     He pointed to the back seat. I dug in. It was as good as advertised.

     My chest tightened, watching the house disappear in the rear view. It was the same house Max and I stayed in before HQ and the Orange man. The place had grown on me, creepy stock photos and all.

     Yeah, that's nice, real sweet. Eat.

     I tucked back into the food.

     "So, just remember that I liked you enough to get you out of there and feed you."

     The fork froze halfway to my mouth.

     Max plowed ahead. "And, remember that I've been doing this longer then Ethan and I know what I'm talking about."

     I put the fork down. My stomach roiled. "Why?"

     "I think we should fake your death," he said, as calmly as if we were discussing the weather.

     "That's not funny."

     "I'm not kidding."

     "No. Absolutely not. I'm not doing that to my parents." The memory of my father's misdiagnosis, of the thought of being without him, of how much pain I was in, leapt to the forefront of my mind.

     He sucked a breath through his teeth, shrugging. "Sorry. Kinda too late. We're heading to your funeral. Mind if I turn on the radio?" He switched it on without waiting for an answer.

     I turned it off. "What are you doing here? What's the point?"

     He shot me a strange look. "Getting you away from the people who want you dead."

     "No, what are you doing here? You don't care about me. And, you definitely don't care about Ethan."

     He slammed on the brakes, right in the middle of the freeway. Horns screamed. Curses flew.

     Max stared me down. "That is not fair. You can't... why would you.... say that? Everything I've done has been because I care about him."

     "You don't torture someone because you love them."