Body Surfing

you’re the master mechanic. And then, with his broken leg dangling behind him, his broken hand contorted into a claw and his splintered rib pressing against the inside of the raw flesh of his abdomen, he swam.
    And swam.
    And swam .
    The river was just over six thousand feet wide at this point. He’d learned this when he was fifteen. Q. had bought a pair of kayaks that he and Jasper raced back and forth across the water nearly every day of the summer. But every time Jasper lifted Larry’s head above the water to see how far he’d come, the western bank didn’t seem any closer. The eastern edge seemed to get farther and farther away, but this wasn’t particularly reassuring. It only made it seem that much less likely he’d make it back if he decided to turn around.
    Fuck but he was cold now. Why the hell had he decided to do this? Why hadn’t he driven up to Albany, crossed the river by one of the bridges there instead of swimming the ice-cold Hudson in a borrowed body with a broken leg? But Jasper knew the answer to his question. It wasn’t the police he was running from. It wasn’t Leo he was running after. It was himself. Running from himself, running toward himself, it was all the same. He was running from his fate and he was running toward it at the same time. The person swimming the river in this broken body was the same person who had turned over the soil in his dad’s garden with such proficiency. Jasper had to believe that. Had to prove it. He would prove it, or he would die trying.
    He looked up to see how far he’d come, but his brain was so fried that all he saw was blackness broken only by a flash of gold on his wrist. Q.’s watch. Good old Q. When he first met him in second grade, Billy Lethem had called the dark-skinned new student a towelhead, which Jasper didn’t understand but still recognized was worse than calling him a dork or a doofus or any of the other staple insults of a seven-year-old’s vocabulary. And right after 9/11 the racists had come out of the woodwork. Jasper had seen the graffiti on Q.’s locker, heard the insults hurled from passing cars, not to mention the occasional beer bottle. But in his wildest dreams he’d’ve never imagined that his friend would be stalked by an actual killer, metaphysical or otherwise. At least Leo couldn’t possess him again.
    Jasper started, almost stopped swimming. How did he know that? He wasn’t sure, but he knew it was true, just as he’d known that theappropriate thing to do when Billy Lethem called Q. a towelhead was to punch him in the face. So the Mogran couldn’t possess the same person twice. That was something. Q. was safe from that threat. But that raised another question: who would Leo take next?
    This time Jasper did stop swimming. Only a mouthful of water reminded him what he was doing. He’d seen enough mob movies to know how it worked—do what the bad guy says or your family pays the price. Your family or your friends. His father, in other words, or—
    Michaela.
    Leo was going to take Michaela.
    It made too much sense. There was no one Jasper cared about more. Leo could do incalculable damage to her, and Jasper would be unable to stop him without hurting his girlfriend. The Mogran would heal her injuries as he’d healed Larry Bishop’s. He would walk her out of the hospital, and all Jasper would be able to do was acquiesce to the demon’s demands. Why in the hell was he swimming to the west side of the river? He had to get back to the other side. Had to get to the hospital, stand guard, It didn’t matter that Leo wouldn’t be using doors to get to Michaela. Jasper had to get back there. He only prayed it wasn’t too late.
    He tried to turn around, but his limbs failed him. It was like trying to swim through mud. Jasper thought maybe he’d hit something floating in the water. He was so fucking tired that he couldn’t process the more banal reality: he’d reached the other side of the river. His fingers were digging into the pebbly bottom of the western bank.
    When he finally understood what was happening, he dragged himself ashore with a sob. All he wanted to do was turn around and swim back to Michaela, but he knew he’d never make it. The pain signals were starting to get through despite his best efforts. The blood in his veins was sludgy as cold gravy. He’d say he was running on nothing but adrenaline, but a quick glance inside his host told him that wasn’t quite true. He was running on empty.
    He