She kneels quickly and grabs his foot. He hops a little to keep his balance, and yips when she yanks out the piece of broken china. He yanks his foot from her grasp with a growl.
“Burn gel!” he shouts, shuffling in a hurry out of the kitchen. The only modern shower is upstairs and it also has a tub. Alternating red footprints are left in his wake.
Miranda hadn’t counted on all this. She forgot about the medical gel, too. If he doesn’t have what he requires to tend himself, she won’t have time to get fully away. He’ll come looking and she needs every second. It would take him all of two minutes to telephone one of his fellow brain-butchers and if she’s not well away by then, she never will be.
She turns and scans the kitchen. She knows the big bottle of gel is somewhere in this giant room, but where? Probably near the stove. Racing toward it, she starts yanking out the drawers that crowd this huge work area. Utensils she’s never used clatter loudly. The sound of glass breaking as two measuring cups slam together barely registers.
“Ah!” she exclaims in a near shout as the blue label rolls into view in a drawer containing rarely used cooking supplies like vacuum sealing bags. Snatching it up, she runs for the hall and the stairs beyond. The shower is running. “Dammit,” she growls, taking the long stairway two at a time.
The door to the bathroom isn’t closed, which is a first. She hesitates only a second, then knocks and enters at the same time. Tom’s boxers are on the floor and the big first aid kit is open near it.
“I’ve got the gel. Where do you want it?” she asks.
Tom looks out of the curtain. His face is red, but he doesn’t look angry, only pained. Perhaps he sees something in her expression and mistakes that anxiety for guilt. “Just there is fine. It looks worse than it is, Miranda. Don’t feel bad.”
It’s only then that she remembers she’s supposed to feel bad. Her brain is so filled with all the what-ifs that the pain she just caused has flown right out of her head. If anything, she’s annoyed. This minute is one precious minute that’s being lost.
“I’ll just go down and clean the mess,” she says, then adds. “I really am sorry.”
She can see the shadow of him bending a leg toward the spray through the curtain. There’s a momentary wince, but he gives her an attempt at a smile and says, “I must not have deserved that treat, after all. I’ll have to be good for next time.”
She gives him a faltering smile that she hopes is believable as whatever he needs it to be, then backs out of the door and closes it gently. All that slow deliberate movement disappears as she steps back. Rising onto her toes, the small creak of her canvas tennis shoes sounds like a scream to her heightened senses.
She races down the stairs and slides into the kitchen, little pieces of broken saucer clattering away from her skid. Miranda yanks open one of the big cabinets behind the table that used to hold endless serving dishes. She almost falls on her butt when the bag she packed seems to fly out as she grabs it. It had been heavy before. Now, the adrenaline flooding her system has made it as light as the cup she just emptied onto Tom.
Grabbing the wet pants, she finds the lump of his keys and almost squeals. They don’t want to come out of the wet pocket and she hears the sound of tearing fabric. For a moment, she simply stares at the small bundle in her hands. A key fob, which is also the car key, shares the ring with the keys to the front and back door. It’s all she needs.
At the door the adrenaline goes into overdrive and she feels the hot flush of anxiety racing like a fire up her throat. She has to go outside. Early morning sunshine turns everything green and gold and bright.
“Fuck it,” she says, and opens the door.
It’s not the first time the sun has touched her in all the years since that terrible day when Sharon died on her porch with her face turned to the sky. It has been a rare occasion however, and it feels alien to her skin. It prickles, like the sunlight is composed of tiny needles so sharp they don’t bring blood.
She takes one step and the spell is broken. She runs. The car is no more than fifty feet from the back door, but she has to pass under the window of Tom’s bedroom to get there. She can make no noise.
At the corner of the big house, she stops for a single heartbeat, just enough time to glance upward at the window. The curtains aren’t completely closed, but at least they aren’t completely open. And the bathroom attached to his room has a frosted glass window. As long as he’s still in there, she might be okay.
At the car, she crouches and moves around it to the passenger side. Peeking above the edge of the door, she sees nothing except the unmoving drapes and darkness in the gap. Her hands are shaking so badly that she has to press the key fob in both hands. She can only hit the button once. This car makes a beep if the button is pressed multiple times. No beeps can be allowed. The small thunk of the locks disengaging makes her gasp. She’s really going to do this.
She’s going to drive in broad daylight in a world of mostly men and she’s going to do it like a bat out of hell until she finds something safer than having her brains scrambled.
Pulling open the back door carefully, she shoves her bag onto the seat and closes it too gently. It’s not completely shut, but the catch
