Gone

scapegoat.”
    Quinn spread his hands wide in an expression of aggrieved innocence. “What have I been saying? That’s the way it is: you’re different, you get to be a victim. You try and act all superior, Sam, all righteous, but you haven’t even figured it out yet. Worst that happened to us back then was we get in trouble, get suspended, get an ‘F’ or whatever. Screw up now and it’s a baseball bat up alongside your head. There were always bullies, but the adults were still in charge. Now? Now the bullies rule. Different game, brother, a whole different game. We play by the bully rules now.”

SEVENTEEN
    169 HOURS , 18 MINUTES
    “I NEED MORE pills,” Cookie cried in a voice that to Dahra Baidoo’s dismay never seemed to weaken or grow hoarse.
    “It’s too soon,” Dahra said for the millionth time in the last three days.
    “Give me the pills!” Cookie bellowed. “It hurts. It hurts so bad.”
    Dahra pressed her hands over her ears and tried to make sense of the text open in front of her. It would probably have been easy to figure out what to do if she still had the internet. Then she could have opened a Google page and punched in “Vicodin” and “overdose.” It was harder to get a straight answer from the thick, dog-eared Physicians’ Desk Reference someone had brought her from the only doctor’s office in Perdido Beach.
    The problem, among other things, was that she was playing mix-and-match with everything from Advil to Vicodin to Tylenol with codeine. There was nothing in the book abouthow to control pain by mixing together a little of this and a little of that and not enough of anything.
    Dahra’s boyfriend, Elwood, was slumped in a chair, passed out. He had been a faithful friend, at least so far as hanging around and keeping her company. And he always helped her lift Cookie up to slide the bedpan under his butt when he needed to go.
    But there were limits to what her boyfriend would do. He wouldn’t clean out the bedpan. He wouldn’t hold the funnel when the boy needed to pee.
    Dahra had done that. In the three days since she had accidentally become the person responsible for this squalid, dark, windowless, joyless, subterranean kingdom of misery beneath the church, Dahra had done all sorts of things she never thought she could do. Things she sure didn’t want to do, including giving a diabetic seven-year-old daily insulin injections.
    There was a knock at the door and Dahra swiveled her chair away from the desk and the circle of light that spilled over the almost useless book.
    Mary Terrafino was there with a girl who looked like she was maybe four.
    “Hi, Mary,” Dahra said. “What do we have here?”
    “I’m so sorry to bother you,” Mary said. “I know how busy you are. But she has some kind of pain in her stomach.”
    The two girls hugged. They hadn’t known each other well before the FAYZ, but now they were like sisters.
    Dahra knelt down to eye level with the little girl. “Hi, honey. What’s your name?”
    “Ashley.”
    “Okay, Ashley, let’s get your temperature and see what’s going on. Can you come over and sit on the table?”
    Dahra slid the electronic thermometer into a fresh plastic cover and popped the thermometer into the little girl’s mouth.
    “You have the moves down,” Mary said, and smiled.
    Cookie bellowed suddenly, so loudly and so obscenely that Ashley almost swallowed the thermometer.
    “I’m running out of pain pills,” Dahra said. “I don’t know what to do. We’ve emptied out the doctor’s office and sometimes we get some meds that people have found when they’re doing house searches. But he’s in so much pain.”
    “Is it getting any better? His shoulder, I mean?”
    “No,” Dahra said. “It’s not going to get better. All I can do is keep it clean.” She examined the thermometer. “Ninety-eight point nine. That’s well within the normal range. Lie back and let me check something. I’m going to push on your tummy. It might tickle a little.”
    “Are you going to give me a shot?” the little girl asked.
    “No, honey. I just want to push on your tummy.” Dahra pressed down with her fingertips, pressed the girl’s belly pretty far down and then released suddenly. “Did that hurt?”
    “It tickled.”
    “What are you checking for?” Mary asked.
    “Appendicitis.” Dahra shrugged. “It’s about all I know, Mary. When I look up ‘stomach pain,’ I get everything from constipation to stomach cancer. Probably