She stood frozen. She had her instructions but had yet to digest them.
“Maisie!”
She locked in on his eyes. You can do this. She backed out of the room without saying a word, as if her uncle’s telepathy had worked. Patrick grabbed a bed pillow with his free hand and shook it out of its case. He folded the pillowcase into a bandage as best he could, lifted his hand from Grant’s forehead, and slid it underneath before applying pressure again. Grant groaned, but did not open his eyes.
“It’s okay, kid. GUP’s here. I’ve got you.” What Patrick wanted, though, was someone who had him.
Maisie reappeared, thrusting her arm forward with the phone, the charger dangling like a wild, unorthodox tail; she had unplugged the whole thing from the wall. “Good job,” he said, relieved to have this lifeline in his hand. He fumbled his password twice before seeing the word emergency on his phone’s lock screen. For the first time in his life he pressed it to dial 911.
It rang. It rang again. It kept ringing.
No answer. Sonofabitch.
Each ring screeched in his ear, begging him to do something—anything—yet Patrick remained paralyzed by indecision. The lines were down or the operators were overwhelmed—either way, help was not coming. Staying put seemed wrong. Did he know what to do for a concussion? What if it was more than that? Leaving seemed equally unwise. The streets could very well be impassable. What if they encountered live power lines in the street, or coyotes, or sinkholes, or looters? The phone continued to ring. How could emergency services not be prepared for just that: emergencies? Patrick knew he had to act. But could Grant have a neck injury? Was it reckless to move him? He would be careful. That was the answer. Together they would find a way through.
“C’mon, Maisie. We’re taking the Tesla.” He hoped to god it would start. Was it fully charged? Yes, of course. He never took it anywhere. Did it lose charge from nonuse? They were about to find out. Patrick wanted to laugh—there was a certain “To the Batmobile!” quality to it all—but he was pretty certain that if he did laugh it would not really be because anything was funny; it would be a release, the kind that quickly dissolved into tears.
“GUP.” Maisie covered her mouth with both hands.
“What?”
She whispered. “Your Golden Globe.”
Patrick closed his eyes for no more than a second; was she simply reminding him that he once said he would save his Golden Globe before them? Or had she seen something in her run through the living room, the award broken on the living room floor, the globe itself rolling deep under the couch never to be seen again. It didn’t matter. Things change. Priorities realign. And right now, everything was crystal clear. “Fuck my Golden Globe.”
Grant groaned again as if to voice his concern that perhaps it was his uncle who’d been hit in the head. Maisie gasped. She inched toward the edge of the bed to peer at her brother.
“It will be okay, Maisie.” Patrick peeled the pillowcase slowly from Grant’s forehead; there was blood, but it didn’t appear to be gushing. “Sit with your brother for a moment while I get my stuff.”
Maisie took Grant’s hand and Patrick melted. As he bolted for the hall, he heard Maisie reassure her brother. “GUP says it will be okay.”
The roads were surprisingly clear. Patrick gripped the wheel with both hands in preparation for an aftershock. The spring winds that whipped along 111 were strong enough some nights to push a car into an oncoming lane if the driver was unaware; he’d even heard more than once about a truck jackknifing and tipping over. What could an equally strong force do from below? When he noticed his hands turning white, he loosened his grip. He’d seen too many disaster movies where the roads were splitting and falling into massive sinkholes behind a hero who was trying desperately to escape, and that one where a volcano erupted on Wilshire Boulevard and spit flaming balls of lava in the path of geologist Anne Heche. It had been years since he’d driven, but still—there was no need for that kind of dramatics.
“How you doing back there?”
Patrick glanced in the rearview mirror. Maisie was sitting behind the passenger seat with Grant’s head in her lap. He was awake now, but groggy. She met her uncle’s eyes in the mirror. “Is the car even on?” Maisie asked, concerned.
“Yes, it’s on. We’re moving, aren’t we?”
“It’s so quiet!” She still yelled like she was trying to be heard over a revving engine.
“It’s supposed to be quiet. It’s electric.” Patrick stepped on the gas to prove they weren’t in neutral.
“I’m hot.”
“Okay, sit tight.” Patrick reached for the touch screen that housed the Tesla’s controls. His eyes focused on the road, he activated one of the car’s ridiculous Easter eggs, producing a video of a roaring fire on the enormous center console.
Maisie screamed. “The car’s on fire!”
“Oh, god. No it’s not. That’s romance mode. This is exactly why I Uber!” He pushed a few more buttons. The fire stopped, but he couldn’t figure out how to turn up the AC and stay focused on driving, so he cracked the windows instead. “Grant, what’s your name?” He hollered it over the howling wind, wondering if either of them would appreciate that he gave away the
