The Runaway House

Eighteen . Laced with Panic

A siren wakes me, piercing through the fog around my head and shattering my thoughts.

"Travis!" Another siren. A shriek.

This one hits my stomach, and I gasp. It churns, and I open my eyes—but I'm attacked by the string lights flying toward me, pain dancing behind my eyelids.

There's an echo of a sob as two figures come into view.

"It'll be okay, Zoe," Amy soothes. "Just stay here. I'm going to get Travis."

"Okay," Zoe sniffles. "But be fast. She's—she's bleeding, Amy."

My mind stumbles through my memories, but all it finds is darkness. Why am I on the floor?

"Lee?" Zoe places her arm on my stomach, and I jolt. She pulls back with a painful cry.

"What happened?" I croak.

"I dunno," Zoe sobs.

"Oh, baby." I reach out, squinting through the light to find her. "Don't cry. I'm all right."

"But you're bleeding," she wails.

". . . I am?"

"Lee?" A male voice sounds, and I groan. Why does everyone have to shout?

"She's this way," Amy says.

"Shh," I mutter.

"Lee." Travis drops down next to me. "What happened?"

"I . . . don't know . . ."

He swears, and his fingers touch my head. I gasp.

"We need to get you inside. Penelope will know what to do. Can you stand?" He helps me up, but my knees give, and I stumble into him. His arms come behind my legs, and he lifts me up. "I'm sorry if it's jolting."

I rest my head on his shoulder. "I'm sorry if I throw up on you."

He chuckles as he steps outside of the barn. "I think I can handle that."

The bonfire is excruciatingly bright, and I bury my face in Travis's shirt. Shouting voices blend together, but Travis's voice silences them all. My heart is beating in my head, and I shut my eyes against the approaching light of the house.

Once we're in the kitchen, Travis tries to keep his voice down. "Grandma. I need your help. She has a concussion."

Penelope gasps, and the screech of a wooden chair makes me cringe. "What happened?"

"I don't know," he murmurs. "Do you want her upstairs?"

"Yes—and be careful, Travis."

Even though he tries to ascend the stairs gently, by the time we've reached the top, it's like I've been tossed around on a boat for hours.

"Travis—" I place a hand over my mouth.

But he's already making his way toward the bathroom. Too fast—too far away. He sets me down just in time for me to stumble inside. But I don't make it to the toilet.

Half of the puke ends up on the counter, and the rest in the sink. Travis pulls back my hair as each cough sends my head spinning more and more. When I finally pull myself up, I glimpse myself in the mirror and gasp.

Blood is dripping down one side of my head. Because of the light, my eyes are squinting slits.

I glance at the mess on the counter in front of me. "I'm so sorry . . ."