Maybe Mom was right about the sigils. I wish I’d had more time to look into it. Along the edges, there are markings that look like words from some sort of long-lost language. I continue to turn it over, eyeing it from every angle.
If the inscription is the key…
How in the hell do I figure out how to read the damn thing?
Chapter 19
Merry Christmas
The etchings on the outside of the box make absolutely no sense in my brain. But in a strange way, the longer I stare at them, the more they remind me of a combination of hieroglyphics and modern-day Chinese. Beyond that, it’s like no kind of writing I’ve ever seen. Yet, my mom seems to think that’s what it is. Assuming she’s right, and assuming the dream was real, I need to learn what this means. Fast.
If I could just understand why the Angel of Death gave me the box, or hell, wiped my memory, maybe things would start to make sense. I wish Wade was better so he could make his dad come to us, since the Angel of Death clearly doesn’t answer to me at all. Of course, that’s only one of the many reasons I wish Wade was better.
Setting the box aside, I lean forward and pick up Wade’s hand. His palm is cool and almost clammy, but as soon as our skin touches, he sighs. It’s as if he’s somehow aware of my touch and it comforts him. At the very least, it lightens my heart to know that even in this state, even in whatever pain he must be in, I bring him a little bit of peace. I only wish this wasn’t all my fault.
“You should have stayed away from me,” I whisper, stroking the edge of his thumb with my pointer finger. As much as I knew it—as much as he knew it—we just couldn’t seem to do the safe thing.
Wade groans, arching his back slightly.
I run my hand across his forearm, but his face crumples and his head tips backward. He practically buries the top of his head in the pillow as his torso lifts off the bed. Suddenly, the monitor with his heart rate shows a sharp spike and the rest of the machines all around us spring to life.
Still holding his hand, I kick my chair back, letting it skid across the tile floor. Before I can make any other moves, two nurses rush in from the hallway.
“Take a step back, please,” one of them says, sliding between me and the bed. Her arm is forceful as she practically knocks me back.
I clutch at the edge of the deep window well, staring in horror as the two of them hover over Wade. The second nurse rotates away from him, turning to the readouts from the heart machine and checking them over.
The next thing I know, Doctor Lockstad hurries in. She marches straight to Wade, but there’s no hint of panic in her face at all. It’s as if, at this point, she’s used to whatever this is. In some small way, it takes a bit of the edge off my own panic. Her eyes narrow as she pulls out a small pen light and lifts his eyelids, shining the light in his eyes with a quick flick of her wrist.
“He needs his next round of steroids and some sedation. Make sure his fluid intake is increased as well,” she says to the nurse who took my place at the bedside.
“On it,” she says, nodding to the doctor and pivoting to one of the plastic bin units beside the bed. She pulls out a number of medical supplies, then exits the room quickly. When she comes back, she has a couple of small vials in her hand.
Dr. Lockstad slowly checks over Wade’s vitals as he flails hard against her. “Hang tight here, Wade. It’ll be all over soon,” she says, her voice calm and steady.
It doesn’t seem like he hears her at all. He continues to arch his back, rocking from side to side as if fighting an imaginary beast. Then, one of his arms flies up to the mark on his chest. He claws at his hospital gown, tugging at it until the gown releases slightly, revealing angry red lines surrounding the mark. The black webbing is etched deeper into his skin, like a poison trying to infect the rest of his body.
The nurse who had been checking the machine readouts grabs his arms, trying to keep them down.
“Where are we at with the restraints?” Dr. Lockstad asks, her forehead now a cluster of concern.
“I’m sorry. The ward has been so crazy today. You know how it is on Christmas. I’ll go get them now,” the nurse responds.
As she disappears down the hall, I step up, grabbing onto Wade’s wrists and holding them so he can’t hurt himself. My thoughts are a tangled mess, but I can’t help but be surprised by the single word. “Restraints? Are you sure that’s necessary? He’s been so quiet up until now,” I say, struggling to keep his arms down.
The nurse hands the doctor a needle.
“Just until we can get these episodes under control,” Dr. Lockstad says, injecting the medication into Wade’s IV. The nurse hands her a second injection and she goes through the motion all over again.
It takes a few minutes for whatever they gave him to work, but I can tell the instant it does. The rigidity of his muscles relaxes and the fight left in his arms dwindles.
“It’s okay, Wade. We’re here,” I whisper, removing my right hand to run it across his cheek. “I’m here.”
He sighs, his forehead relaxing slightly.
“He knows you’re here,” Dr. Lockstad says, her lips turning up slightly.
“I wish I could do more,” I say, refusing to divert my gaze from his face.
How could we have come this far? This morning he was fine. More than
