Revived (Cat Patrick)

God says. “What a colossal waste of Revive you were.”
    Ignoring him, I take one more step, and the silhouette—Jesus—appears in the window. He props open the glass, and even from this great distance I can see the weapon aimed in my direction. I close my eyes and hold my breath, willing it to be quick.
    There’s a funny sound behind me, like a pebble hitting a pillow. Confused, I turn to look. And that’s when I realize what he’s done.
    Jesus didn’t shoot me; he shot the hive.
    Angry bees spill out of the gaping hole in their home, seeking vengeance on anyone stupid enough to be standing nearby. I turn back to the house and see that Jesus is gone from the window. Even though I’m unsure where he is, there’s no question now that I have to move. I take three steps before I hear the bees swarming above my head. Tears fill my eyes and fall down my cheeks; I don’t move to wipe them away. In fact, other than my feet, the rest of my body is still. No. Sudden. Movements.
    Step.
    Inhale.
    Step.
    Exhale.
    It’s not that far.
    It’s not that far.
    It’s not that far.
    I realize that the phone is still pressed to my ear. I’m afraid to move my arm, but I’m not going to sit on the phone with God while he and his puppet watch me die. With my thumb, I hit the call button; miraculously, I hear hold music.
    I’m still on hold with Matt!
    The music drives me to take another step. And another.
    I don’t think I’ve been stung yet, but the adrenaline in my body could be masking the pain. A single thought runs through my head: Reach the EpiPen . There’s one in my bag, in the kitchen. All I have to do is cross our yard and the patio and go inside. It’s right there. I can do it.
    Don’t think about the man in the house. He doesn’t know where it is.
    I can grab it before he knows better.
    More and more bees swarm my body. Carefully, I step onto the shorter crunchy brown grass and start across. It can’t be more than fifteen steps to the patio. Then only a few more to the door.
    My mind jumps to the morbid thought that I’m trying to push away: There is very little Revive in the house, and surely Jesus has already taken it to boost God’s stash. Even if there was a spare syringe, there’s no one sane to administer it. I’m alone.
    A bee lands on my forehead as I step onto the concrete patio. I can feel it crawling across, finding the perfect spot to inject its venom. I manage to stay calm until, suddenly, a person appears behind the sliding door. The sun is reflecting on the glass so I can’t see more than a shadow, but still it terrifies me. I gasp and stop moving.
    And that’s what sets them off.
    Bees on my arms, cheeks, head, and neck start stinging at once, like they’re synchronized. In the second before I close my eyes, the reflection on the door shifts and I realize that it’s Cassie.
    She’s home!
    A wave of relief rushes through me despite the fact that bees are wreaking havoc on my body.
    “Cassie!” I scream. The bees try to crawl in my mouth, so I slam it shut. I walk, covered with bees like a beekeeper but without the protective gear, two more steps.
    Elated that I’ve reached the door, I extend my hand to open it.
    Cassie reaches over to help.
    I hear the lock click shut.
    Baffled, I try the door. It’s definitely locked.
    Confused, through blurred vision, I stare at Cassie. Maybe she doesn’t understand. Maybe she thinks she unlocked it. Except…
    Her face is normal. Neutral. Robotic. But there’s also a hint of curiosity.
    I realize that Cassie’s actually typing something into her phone. How can she be working at a time like this? My other line beeps. Even though I know who it is, I decide to answer, hoping God will show me mercy. I flip back over.
    “Now you see the error of your ways,” God says, enjoying this. When I don’t speak, he continues. “Well, I guess the cat’s out of the bag now,” he says jovially. “Daisy, meet Jesus. You might also know her as Cassie.”
    My eyes widen as I look in disbelief at the woman I’ve lived with for six years. The woman I’ve pretended to love like a mother. I get it now: She’s been in communication with him. Today. Maybe always.
    Fruitlessly, I tug at the door again. Cassie shrugs a shoulder at me and smiles. Then, like it’s nothing, she turns and walks away, my school backpack slung over her shoulder and cases in both hands.
    “Don’t feel bad, Daisy,” God is saying in my ear. “The problem is that you’re too