Free Down With the Shine by Kate Karyus Quinn Page B

search slightly up and to the left I find the faint but unmistakable beat of Dyl’s pulse.
    I hold my hand there, counting the beats and daring Dyl to wake up. I can imagine the way her eyes would fly open. “What the hell are you doing?” she’d say. “That’s some creepy shit, Len.”
    She just lies there, though, so still and silent that even with my fingers tracking the beats of her heart, I still am not sure whether she’s dead or alive.
    Something in me snaps. “DYL!” I scream in her face. “Wake up, Dyl! Dylan. Wake up!” I grab her shoulders and give her a good shake. Her head wobbles on her neck, and worried that I might snap it, I snatch my hands away. Limp, Dyl flops back onto the pillow, her striped hair floating outward in a halo around her. And yet, not so much as an eyelid flutters.
    “What the hell are you doing?” Smith, using the same words I’d imagined coming from Dylan, grabs my arm and pulls me away. I jerk back, but he grabs me again and this time puts his face only an inch from mine. “Leave her alone, Lennie.”
    His breath stinks of alcohol. Whiskey or bourbon or something strong, that’s for sure.
    A rush of rage fills me. He ran out of here to get a drink. While I’ve been trying to decide if Dyl is alive ordead or something weirder and in between, he’s been doing his best to get drunk. From the glassy look in his eyes, he’s been pretty successful.
    I bring my hand up and jab two fingers into the blackest part of the bruise below his right eye. Then I push past him to Dyl’s record collection and begin digging into the pile of vinyl, already knowing the exact one I want. It’s the pride of Dyl’s collection, a first pressing of Led Zeppelin’s self-titled debut album. Spotting the distinctive turquoise lettering on the sleeve, I slide the record out.
    Despite her haphazard storage methods, Dyl is particular about her collection and never lets me handle them. I’ve seen her do it a million times, though, so I know the ritual. First, she blows across the surface of the record to remove any lint or dust. Then, keeping her fingers carefully on the rounded edge, she gently settles it onto the player. Finally, the needle is lifted and with the softest of touches placed at the edge of the record.
    As “Good Times Bad Times” starts to play, I reach down to crank up the volume.
    I stand there for a moment watching the record turn, listening to the music, and wishing . . .
    No, I don’t make wishes. Not anymore. It’s too dangerous.
    So when I slowly turn back toward Dylan, I don’t wish,but merely hope to see . . . what?
    Dyl dancing on her bed while Smith gazes at me with a mixture of gratitude and love in his eyes?
    Yeah, that doesn’t happen.
    Dyl remains frozen in bed, and Smith is once again nowhere to be seen.
    I rub my eyes, suddenly exhausted. I’m tempted to crawl under the covers next to Dyl. When she was alive I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now it feels too much like sharing a grave.
    “Gah, Lennie, mope why don’t ya.” I can hear Dyl saying that so clearly that I almost go over to the bed to shake her again. Dyl believed in action. She dared life to knock her down, just to see how quick she could get up again.
    “Get up, Dyl,” I urge in a soft voice. “Get up.”
    Still nothing.
    “Okay.” I nod. “It is way too early to be up. Excellent point. I’ll go downstairs and have a little breakfast while you sleep in. All righty then?”
    I turn away before she can not answer.
    Actually, breakfast isn’t such a terrible idea. I’ve been too nauseous to even think about food up to this point, and even though the sick feeling hasn’t gone away, I’m determined to make myself eat something, because whateverelse happens next, I have a feeling I’ll need all my strength to face it.
    I clomp down the stairs and head into the kitchen where as usual the cupboards are mostly empty and the fridge is full of old takeout boxes. After digging through