When I Knew You by Desireé Prosapio Read Free Book Online Page B

thought I had hung it up on the coat rack. I checked the pockets. Nothing. Had I lost the tape on the way home from the hospital? Had I lost everything? I searched around the couch, the bookshelf, and back in my room. Nothing. When I bent over to look under the coffee tape, my head pounded to the point I almost passed out. Disgusted, I grabbed my jacket and headed out.
    I was exhausted, confused and a little angry, although I wasn't sure at what, or who. Was I angry at my mother for leaving again? Or was I angry that someone took her from me all those years ago?  
    Who was the old man who came to the hospital, I wondered. And Roberto, the guy mom had the argument with before the accident. I'd never heard that name before. Did someone actually try to kill her? Was it Roberto?
    I was halfway to the parking lot before I realized I didn't have a car anymore. Pools of light glinted off silent cars in their neat rows, an empty slot where I usually parked. When I closed my eyes for a moment I remembered being on Highway 46 over a week ago, reaching down for my phone right before the truck hit. It was a good thing that I didn't see it coming.
    I blinked away my tears and looked up into the sky. The night was cool, the street quiet, the light breeze encouraging. I walked toward the Mexican place that had tortillas that nearly rivaled Abuela's although their refried beans—the true test, she always said—were only passable.  
    When I walked in, I was starving, but once the food arrived, it smelled so familiar I could hardly pick up the fork. A ghost of Abuela's gentle hand seemed to be rubbing my back, urging me to eat. Panic rose at the memory and sealed my throat. Where were they? Why hadn't they called?  
    I had started to pick at my food when the first fire truck roared by the restaurant's front window, the shrieking sirens shaking the glass with muffled fury. Three more followed, each screeching siren louder than the last as if a sound barrier had been cracked open and their desperate cries slipped in and around everyone and everything.  
    I asked for a to-go box to take my still warm food with me, a nagging dread pulsing in my stomach in time with the wailing sirens.
    I knew before I turned the corner that the flames were coming from my apartment. My head seemed incredibly light and I felt myself beginning to sway.
    Do not pass out, Kat. Do not.
    The gathered crowd was surprisingly large as if a tour bus had just dropped off a group of tourists. I lingered at the edge of the group, watching the flames shoot out of my bedroom and living room windows with fierce determination.  
    Everything would be gone. My gear, my clothes, my posters of Big Bend and Hueco Tanks. A deep weight pressed down on my shoulders, driving me into the ground. I weighed 300 pounds, heavy and frozen in place.
    I became inexplicably philosophical. At least I was safe. At least I hadn't been home, hadn't taken the sleeping medication Eliah had brought me to help calm the pounding in my head.
    I scanned the crowd for my neighbors, for the three guys that lived behind my apartment, for Alyse the balcony gardener on the other side, and David the accountant and acid rock fiend just below. I was about to move in toward one of the firefighters, to let them know that I was all right, when I spotted a very tall man in the crowd. Some would call him freakishly tall.  
    It was Eliah, but he was almost unrecognizable. In fact, if he hadn't been so tall, I wouldn't have believed it was him. Gone was his awkwardness, the goofy smile, the wide, eager eyes.  
    His face was transformed into a series of hard edges, a wry smile on lips tightly closed. He narrowed his eyes as a firefighter aimed the hose into my bedroom window, as if disapproving of the effort.  
    Slowly he began to turn away from the fire, scanning the crowd himself.  
    I stepped back behind a woman who was holding up a squirming toddler for a better look, hoping the kid's head kept me hidden from