Severed [GB + SB]

Two: Two Carries and a Karen

WEDNESDAY

I woke up early, around 6 I think, my limbs feeling heavy and my eyes scratchy. I blinked, over and over, to clear the haze from my vision and whatever weight was attached to my eyelids dragging them closed, but nothing seemed to work. Eventually I gave up and let them stay closed, and drifted back under.

I think that happened twice more before I was finally able to keep my eyes open long enough to get out of bed, and really it was mostly my screaming bladder that got me moving. After I'd used the bathroom, brushed my teeth, and washed my face, I looked over at Kota's house again. Nothing.

I had one more thing to try. It was a desperate move, but I was willing to take a chance.

The morning that I met Victor, when he and Kota helped change my tire, and I ended up in that diner stuffing waffles down my throat, in between my bouts of cyber-stalking I had stared at the page in my notebook where I'd recorded the information from Nate's business card. At the time, I wasn't really registering much of what I was seeing, and I wasn't really looking past the inscription "Victor Morgan - Home" but if I concentrated, I thought I could recall the numbers I'd written down next to his name. My brain was a little muzzy and it was ages ago — like a whole week! — but I thought maybe I remembered.

I tossed on a loose, faded blue tank and cutoff denim shorts. I stashed my keys in my pocket and put on a pair of black Adidas sneakers that might hold up better tromping through the woods than the pink ones I'd worn yesterday did. They were going to need some serious scrubbing to get all the dirt and grass stains off. I locked my bedroom up and turned on the bathroom light, giving my hair a quick check in the mirror: I'd rebraided it after my shower last night, and it was matted and slightly sticky over the stitches — from the adhesive from the bandages, I think? — but was otherwise fine.

These shoes were great, it felt like they were extra flexible so I moved easily down the hall missing all the squeaky parts. I sat down on the top step and waited, listening. I could hear my dad typing away in the living room — Owen hadn't upgraded his computer, it was still the same crappy six year old desktop machine running Windows 8 — and my stepmom rustling something in their bedroom. Good enough. I moved silently down the stairs and into the kitchen.

The landline receiver sat off the side on the countertop, and I snatched it up on the way out through the side door to the garage. Once the door was shut, I sat on the stairs facing the empty parking spot where my car should be, and my dad's seen-better-days sedan. I took a few moments to remember that notebook page, everything blurry but the entry for "Victor Morgan - House," and then I punched in the number.

It rang six times and I was about to hang up, when someone answered.

"Hello? This is the Morgan residence." It was a female voice, with a slight accent I couldn't place.

"Umm, hi. I'm calling for Victor. Is he available?"

"How did you get this number?" Well, that's an odd thing to ask.

"A mutual friend gave it to me so I could call Victor. Is he there?"

There was a long silence, then "This is an unlisted number."

"I'm sorry, I didn't know that, but it's the number I have. Can you just tell him Sang is on the phone? I think he'll want to talk to me."

Another long silence. "He's not here. He's out with a friend."

"Is he with Kota or Nate? They're my friends too. If you could just give me—"

"No, he's out with his girlfriend."

That was odd. I'd think I'd know if he was with me. "When did he leave to come over? So I know when to expect—"

"Last night. He had a date with her last night. What did you say your name was?"