Breaking Brooklyn

Chapter Eight

Josephine

A strangled garble wakes me from a deep slumber. I open my eyes, squinting at a wooden ceiling. An overhead fan spins, cutting through the air. The base wobbles, making the gaudy chains hit one another. It produces a faint whine, but that's not what woke me.

I turn my head toward the natural sunlight, spotting the culprit. A rooster is pacing the deck outside my window, one orange eye trained on me. It opens its beak, crowing again.

"Not the kind of cock I want to see in the morning," I grumble, sitting up in bed.

I fumble for my phone, forgetting it's at the bottom of the Chesapeake Bay, along with my luggage. The police said they're working on recovering the vehicle, but with the tides constantly changing, it could take time.

Unfortunately, that's all the police had to offer when they spoke to us at the hospital. Brooklyn gave them the sedan's license plate, but it turns out it was forged. Whoever threatened us on the bridge, they're long gone. Brooklyn is convinced the men were hired by someone—or a group of someones—to scare me. He's also convinced I'll be safest with him in Bumfuck, Nowhere.

I'm still wearing a burgundy sweatsuit provided by the hospital. Apparently, I ran track at Broadneck High School in Maryland. I just hope they wash the items they sift out of the lost and found bin. I slip my feet into a pair of secondhand sneakers, my toes bunched at the tips.

I need clothing. I need to replace my phone. But first, I need to find Brooklyn.

After we were discharged, Brooklyn rented a car. He took the long way up the coast, avoiding bridges per my request. We arrived at his ranch in Connecticut late last night. It was pitch black and I was too tired to be interested in my surroundings.

I remember hearing running water and thousands of crickets. I remember going pee, and Brooklyn growling at me for leaving the door open. I remember falling onto a stale mattress, and feeling Brooklyn remove my shoes.

Not having a cell phone is strange. I used the landline in my room at the hospital to speak with my panicked parents. I was too confused to relay information, so Brooklyn stepped in, and told my father he was taking me to Connecticut. Apart from that, I haven't had any contact with the outside world. I haven't checked in with Belladonna, or scrolled through social media. I should be anxious, but I'm not. I should be scared, but I'm not. As with every trauma I've experienced, I bury it in an unmarked grave, and move on with my life.

I leave the small bedroom, entering a narrow hall lined with framed photographs. Like my family, the Haas's are proud of their accomplishments, especially those achieved by their surrogate son. I can't imagine Brooklyn taking the time to hang these memories on the walls, so it must've been done by his foster mother, Rachel.

I track the six-foot-two Avocado through the hall, following the progression of his life. There are pictures from grade school, prom, and graduation. Brooklyn had an awkward phase in seventh grade—acne, braces, hunched shoulders. It makes me smile. Maybe he's not a robot, after all.