Fated

pulled under. Lost in the noise.
    The atmosphere turning first hazy, then shimmery, and it’s not long before everything stops, and time screeches to a big slamming halt.
    The waitress now frozen with a tray of plates balanced on her palm—as the busboy pours a solid arc of water that never reaches the bottom. The dancing girls caught in mid-wiggle—lips puckered, eyes slitted—their boyfriends’ tattooed arms caught reaching for freshly poured beers.
    No matter how many times I blink, the scene refuses to change, refuses to march forward again. The beat so insistent, so rhythmic, it causes something inside me—something ancient and deep—to tremble and stir and rise to the surface.
    I squeeze my eyes shut. Fight for control of myself. Aware of the crows swooping down all around me, landing on my shoulders, the table, pecking hard at my fingers—as the glowing ones nudge up against me, urge me to listen, to heed their warning.
    I reach for my bag, fumbling for whatever remains of the herbs Paloma gave me. They’ll make me sleepy, there’s no getting around it—still, sleepy is better than this—anything is.
    Dumping it into my soda, I give it a quick swirl with my straw, then chug it so swiftly it spills out the corner of my mouth, flows down my neck, and lands in small sticky globs on my chest. Then I lean back in my seat, wrap my arms tightly around me, and wait for the vision to end, for time to pick itself up and march forward again.
    My eyes still shut when the waitress comes by and says, “That it?”
    I lift my head, meeting a pair of eyes caked with eyeliner so thick I’m not sure if Jennika would cringe or cheer. Nodding when she repeats the question, too shaken to say anything more, all of my energy spent hoping the herbs will hold long enough to get me to Albuquerque. If not, who knows where I’ll end up?
    “Better get moving then, don’t want to miss your bus now, do you?”
    I narrow my gaze, searching her face once again. Noting a pair of overplucked brows that leave her looking more surprised than she’s probably capable of. “How do you know I’m catching the bus?” I ask, pretty sure I hadn’t mentioned it.
    But she just smirks and plops the check down before me, voice trailing over her shoulder when she says, “If you’re smart, you’ll get out while you can. Don’t be a lifer like I am.”
    I stare at her retreating back, calling, “I gave my phone to the bartender, do you know where he took it?”
    She cocks her head toward the long corridor and disappears into the kitchen. So I toss some bills on the table, grab my bag, and head in the direction she sent me.
    The place is big—much bigger than it appears at first sight. A huge, cavernous, underground space with numerous corridors that lead off in all different directions, reminding me of an old bunker from a movie set Jennika worked on back when I was a kid.
    Since I have no idea where I’m going, I just follow the noise. Figuring at the very least it’ll lead me to someone who might be able to help, and finding myself even further surprised when I enter a really large, crowded room with a stage, and a band, with a whole swarm of teens dancing before them.
    Teens.
    People my age.
    Who would’ve thought?
    They’re even dressed like teens—though I can’t imagine where they shop. The only boutique I saw didn’t sell anything even remotely trendy and cute.
    Maybe there’s more to this town than I thought? Though it’s not like I’ll stick around to find out.
    I head toward the bar, hoping this bartender will be nicer than the last, and after screaming to be heard above the noise, I head in the direction she sent me, attracting all kinds of unwanted attention as I push my way across the dance floor.
    Two dark-haired girls snicker and glare as I make my way past, muttering a word I can’t understand. But with only twenty minutes standing between me and my permanent emancipation from this gawd-awful place, I choose to ignore it—can’t afford a delay. Can’t afford the slightest mistake.
    I rap hard on the door. Once. Twice. Desperate to get some traction, I raise my arm again, ready to bang even harder this time, when the door springs opens, and an older man catches my flailing wrist in his fist as he says, “Yes?” His eyes dance, his teeth flash, and on the surface at least, he appears to be the friendliest person I’ve met so far, but something about him makes me step back—makes me wrench my hand from