M.I.A.

Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-One:

Corey

I stay with Mia. I stay lying right beside her because I'm afraid of leaving her side. Every time I leave her, he hurts her. Sooner or later, she's going to die. I'm terrified of it and I'm terrified for her. Besides him beating her outsides, I'm scared she's becoming too dehydrated. She's not even sweating any more. It's too hot right now. The summer is too much. He took me in winter and I suffered differently than she did. But Cutter had to keep the heat up in the house or risk freezing to death.

Now? He just turns the air conditioner in his room on and lets the rest of the house swelter in hundred degree weather.

I touch her forehead. She's too hot with fever. Her breathing is thready and fast. When I lower my head to her chest, her heart is like a hummingbird batting its wings against my cheek.

"Am I...gonna die?" she whispers. Her voice is a rasp because there is no voice, only air.

"Shhh," I breathe, touching her cracked, tacky lips.

She tries to swallow and I can actually hear the sound of the inside of her throat rubbing against itself. Her blue eyes peer out from bloodshot whites framed by double black eyes. All over again, I want to get my hands on Cutter, I want to beat his face in. No one should hurt someone this small and fragile looking.

She closes her eyes and winces. "Hurts...to breathe."

"I know." I'm willing to bet he probably broke a few ribs. I hope that's all he broke. What if she has internal bleeding? Or a collapsed lung or something?

I shake my head, hating the thought. Closing my eyes, I bury my face in my hands. "This is all my fault. I'm so useless."

I hear her try and swallow again. "Corey—"

I take a shaking breath and try to look brave, to try and be stability for her instability and strength for her weakness. She doesn't need my pity party. It won't do any good for either of us. "Yeah?"

She stares at me long and hard for a really long minute. "Can't...free me?"

I shake my head.

"You...real?"

I squint at her, uncertain how to respond. Am I real? Not in the sense she's asking.

Finally, with a glum sort of finality in her voice, she says, "Ghost?"

Idon't react at first. And even when I can—when I can deal with the harshexternal reality of it—all I can do is sit up and nod.