And it wasn’t just the music.People were shouting to one another, college kids with chaotic markings paintedacross their faces and on bare chests and arms, dancing in a way that made theglowing spots of light seem to float against darkness, yelling to be heard.
Something touched Zoe’s shoulderand she almost shot up into the air; then something brushed her ear, and sherecognized Agent Flynn’s voice dimly through the chaos. “Let’s split up to findthe pres faster. You stay down here, I’ll go upstairs.”
She didn’t have time to argue,even to respond in any way. Flynn melted away from her into the dim light,disappearing into a mess of numbers dancing and fluctuating all around her. Itwas wrong—all wrong. Her normal pin-sharp accuracy was diluted by the light,confusing her senses, making her recalculate and recalibrate constantly. Apainted line made her estimate a man’s height at five foot three; he turnedaround and she saw the darkness of his hair floating far above the line, realizedit was painted mid-chest and not across his shoulders, had to adjust hercalculations. Someone was shouting, words she couldn’t make out, only astaccato rhythm of syllables.
Zoe gasped for air, rememberingbelatedly that she had to breathe. The music pulsed through her, forcing her tocount the beats as it changed and sped up. Some of the nearby kids cheeredloudly and began to jump up and down in time to the music. Liquid spilled tothe floor from a jumping cup, too dimly lit for Zoe to calculate it properly.Numbers flew confusedly around her everywhere, as she tried to figure out theremaining volume in the cup and subtract from the likely amount at fullcapacity, trying to count sips and gulps, to understand steps and moves.
This was a bad idea. She shouldn’thave risked coming inside. Zoe had always known she was bad with parties, butthis was far too much. The stimuli was not just everywhere, but it was confusedand twisted, leaving her gasping and groping ahead for something solid to clingonto. Even the walls glowed that sickly color under the blacklight bulbs,making her feel like the whole world was turning upside down above her head.Her limbs were light, too light, like she could float away.
Zoe realized she had been movingforward all this time, unconsciously walking to try and find a way out, aquieter area where she could recover her thoughts. She groped inside her pocketfor something that would help, her head spinning as a group of two boys—threeboys—four boys walked past her, seeming to loom out of the darkness likeneon-painted monsters, laughing raucously.
A door opened in front of her andas she stepped through, Zoe recognized the room as a kitchen. It had to be.There were bottles of something lined up on the counter—onetwothreefourfivesix—twelve—eighteen—allof them containing different volumes of remaining liquor, her eyes sizing themup and seeing the measurements on each one.
Analyzing them would tell thestory of which kind of liquor was most popular at a frat party, but Zoe didn’tcare. She needed the numbers to stop. Needed them to be numb. A flash ofsomething came into her head: meeting John in a bar with the music too loud,tossing back a drink, numbing it out until she could concentrate on hisconversation. Numb. That was what she needed to be.
She needed to shut the numbers outright now, otherwise she had no idea how she was going to get back out of here.Zoe reached for one of the bottles, not really caring which, and lifted itdirectly to her mouth. She began to drinking, throwing it back, swallowinggreat mouthfuls in gulps to get it into her system quicker. She needed it.
Zoe slammed the bottle back downonto the counter, almost missing it. Her depth perception was off somehow. Howcould it be off? She had excellent depth perception. It was easy when you couldsee the distances between things as if they were written on a piece of paper infront of you.
Zoe pulled her hand out of herpocket and looked down at it. She was holding something shiny. What was that?Her pills. Dr. Monk’s pills.
And it slowly dawned on her thatshe’d been popping those antidepressants all day, trying to get a handle on thenumbers. Like a video, she could see it in her mind: a repeated motif, her handgoing to the blister pack and then to her mouth, every time she felt stressedout. How many had she taken? And Dr. Monk had cautioned her—three only, withmeals, and no alcohol.
Zoe had screwed up. She tried toput the pack back into her pocket and missed three times before finally gettingit in. She grasped hold of the countertop, hoping she wouldn’t fall. Suddenly,getting out of there and shutting down the numbers were no longer priorities.
Now, Zoe just hoped she couldremain upright for a little bit longer.
***
Flynn thrust the door aside, mutteringa quick mental prayer that he wasn’t about to witness something as mind-searingas what had been going on in the last room. He shouldn’t have volunteered totake the upstairs. He should have realized that there would be things going onin the bedrooms.
There was a kid in this one,thankfully fully dressed, sitting with a girl in a very short skirt astride hislap. He was touching her nose and saying something when Flynn opened the door,and they both turned their heads with telltale sluggishness to look at him.
“Hey, man,” the kid said. “Ocupado.”
“Are you the president of SigmaPi?” Flynn demanded. He really hoped this was the right kid. He really, reallyhoped the last people he’d asked weren’t sending him on a wild goose chase.
“Yeah, but you can thank me forthe party later,” the kid said, waving an uncoordinated hand at the door. “Comeon, man. Leave us… levus ’lone.”
“All right, kid,” Flynn said,reaching for his badge to flip it open. “I’m with the FBI. I
