“I don’t like this thing, you know,” he says. “I miss . . . I mean, I wish . . .”

“I know.” I look at the ground, my courage gone. He misses . . . what? He misses me? He misses the way things used to be? Did he really almost say that?

Now I can’t tell him what I desperately need to say, what I told myself I’d say. Because if I do, he’ll walk away from all of this thinking I’m a total mental case. And that would end everything. Every last pillow dream, every hope for that first kiss.

But he could die before any of that could ever happen. I’m so confused I don’t know what’s the right thing to do.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. “I have to go,” I choke out.

He looks at the ground. “It’s cool. I’ll . . . see you?”

Dear dog, I hope so.

Fourteen

The rest of the night is a mess. Immediately every poster in every store window, every stop sign, every TV in every house I deliver to is showing me a truck crashing into Angotti’s. It’s like each object that is created to communicate any sort of visual message is coming alive, screaming at me to do something, to warn the victims, and they won’t let up.

I can’t concentrate on my orders. The Traverse Apartments fiasco put me way behind, and customers start calling to complain. Dad is overanxious and fidgety every time I drive up. Trey’s trying to calm me down on the phone but I can’t talk to him and drive on snow at the same time, so I just give up. I can’t tell him what’s wrong when he asks, even though I really wish I could. I’m getting a massive headache.

When the marquee at the Park Theatre blinks a fluorescent picture of the crash for the entire thirty seconds I’m stuck at the stoplight nearby, I think I’m going to lose it. This weird fear churns in my chest, and I can feel a flutter there, like my heart is racing, trying to urge me to go, go, go. “Stop it!” I scream from the driver’s seat. I pound the steering wheel with my gloved hands. “Just stop.”

But it doesn’t stop. It gets worse. Every window in every house I pass has the scene plastered over it. Every poster on every telephone pole has changed its picture from whatever lost pet it was in search of to the explosion. I have to stop several times just to get a grip and figure out where the hell I’m going. I start lagging even farther behind, until it’s all just so hopeless.

With one pizza to go, I can’t take it anymore, because maybe all of this bombardment means the crash is happening right now, tonight. And somehow it’ll be my fault.

Instead of delivering it, I turn down the street and head to Angotti’s.

• • •

The building is still standing and there’s plenty of parking out front. It’s late, almost eleven. I call Trey and tell his voice mail that I’m fine, tell him that I have to make an extra stop and not to worry, all the while watching shadows of the Angotti’s staff move from room to room through the front window. It’s funny in a not-at-all-funny sort of way—this is the one window that doesn’t have the explosion plastered all over it.

For a moment, watching the peaceful movement inside and for once not being bombarded with hyperexplosions at every turn, I talk myself back out of it. I think maybe I need more sleep. Maybe I just need to . . . I don’t know. Talk to somebody about this vision. A professional.

The thought of telling someone what’s been happening scares me to death. I imagine how they’d look at me. I imagine them pushing a panic button under their desk to summon security, or telling me they’re taking me to get a Coke but really they’re delivering me to doctors with white coats who will grab me and bring me to some asylum where they’ll stick electrodes or whatever on my temples and armpits and do weird testing and shave my head and shit like that. And I’ll have a toothless roommate who is seriously insane and who wants to kill me.

I feel my throat tighten and burn as tears run down the back of it instead of down my cheeks. I sit outside Angotti’s and try to give myself a pep talk. What’s the worst thing that could happen if I go inside and talk to Sawyer? In my mind, I list them.

• • •

Five bad things that could happen:

1. I go in and tell Sawyer and he thinks I’m insane and tells everybody, and my life is over

2. Sawyer’s parents shoot me dead on sight (not a bad option at this point, actually, now that I think about it)

3. The whole fucking crash happens and the place explodes while I’m inside

4. That’s really all I can think of at this point because of all the panic and such

5. As if three bad things weren’t enough

My phone rings while I’m sitting there, and it’s Trey. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a breath, then turn off the phone and shove it into my pocket. I look over at the last delivery, growing cold on the seat next to me. “Sorry, Mrs. Rodriguez,” I say. “I hope you don’t stay up too late waiting for it.” I wonder idly what my father will do when I get back home after not delivering it. It’s weird how little I care about that now.

Finally I grab the handle and shove the car door open. I step out into the slush and close the door softly behind me, and then walk stoically toward Angotti’s front door.

Fifteen

A little bell jingles when I open the door, and a beautiful, plump middle-aged woman looks up from behind the cash wrap.

“We’re just closing down the kitchen,” she says apologetically. And then she narrows her eyes and stares at the Demarco’s Pizzeria logo on my hat. Her voice turns cold. “Can I help you?”