Unpossible by Daryl Gregory Read Free Book Online Page B

the paramedics. "Red Cross guy said she started shaking on the table, they had to get her onto the floor before she fell off. She’d been seizing for five or six minutes before we got there so we brought her in. We gave her point-one of Lorazepam and she came out of it during the ride."
    "She’s the second epileptic this shift," the nurse said to them.
    Paula blinked in surprise. Had one of the yellow house women been brought in? Or one of the converts? She looked to her side, and her companion gazed back at her, amused, but not giving anything away. Everything was part of the plan, but he wouldn’t tell her what the plan was. Not yet.
    The nurse saw Paula’s shift in attention and her expression hardened. "Let’s have you talk to a doctor, Paula."
    "I’m feeling a lot better," Paula said. Didn’t even grit her teeth.
    They released the straps and transferred her to a bed in an exam room. One of the paramedics set her handbag on the bedside table. "Good luck now," he said.
    She glanced at the bag and quickly looked away. Best not to draw attention to it. "I’m sorry if I was any trouble," she said.
    The nurse handed her a clipboard of forms. "I don’t suppose I have to explain these to you," she said. Then: "Is there something wrong with your hand?"
    Paula looked down at her balled fist. She concentrated on loosening her fingers but they refused to unclench. That had been happening more often lately. Always the left hand. "I guess I’m nervous."
    The nurse slowly nodded, not buying it. She made sure Paula could hold the clipboard and write, then left her.
    But not alone. He slouched in a bedside chair, legs stretched in front of him, the soles of his bare feet almost black. His shy smile was like a promise. I’m here, Paula. I’ll always be here for you.

    Richard’s favorite album was Nirvana’s In Utero. She destroyed that CD first.
    He’d moved out on a Friday, filed for divorce on the following Monday. He wanted custody of their daughter. Claire was ten then, a sullen and secretive child, but Paula would sooner burn the house down around them than let him have her. Instead she torched what he loved most. On the day Paula got the letter about the custody hearing, she pulled his CDs and LPs and DATs from the shelves—hundreds of them, an entire wall of the living room, and more in the basement. She carried them to the backyard by the box. Claire wailed in protest, tried to hide some of the cases, and eventually Paula had to lock the girl in her room.
    In the yard Paula emptied a can of lighter fluid over the pile, went into the garage for the gas can, splashed that on as well. She tossed the Nirvana CD on top.
    The pile of plastic went up in a satisfying whoosh. After a few minutes the fire started to die down—the CDs wouldn’t stay lit—so she went back into the house and brought out his books and music magazines.
    The pillar of smoke guided the police to her house. They told her it was illegal to burn garbage in the city. Paula laughed. "Damn right it’s garbage." She wasn’t going to be pushed around by a couple of cops. Neighbors came out to watch. Fuck them, she thought.
    She lived in a neighborhood of Philadelphia that outsiders called "mixed." Blacks and Latinos and whites, a handful of Asians and Arabs. Newly renovated homes with Mexican tile patios, side by side with crack houses and empty lots. Paula moved there from the suburbs to be with Richard and never forgave him. Before Claire was born she made him install an alarm system and set bars across the windows. She felt like they were barely holding on against a tide of criminals and crazies.
    The yellow house women may have been both. They lived across the street and one lot down, in a cottage that was a near-twin of Paula’s. Same field stone porch and peaked roofs, same narrow windows. But while Paula’s house was painted a tasteful slate blue, theirs blazed lemon yellow, the doors and window frames and gutters turned out in garish