Free Freefly by Michele Tallarita Page A

stroke. 
    “Sammie!?”
    She sits on the end of my bed, her arms clutched around her chest, her entire body shaking.  She is drenched:  her hair clumps on her forehead, and her clothes cling to her.  There is definitely something wrong.  Deep rings darken her eyes, and her skin is so pale it seems translucent. 
    “Are you okay?”  I shut the door behind me and take a step closer, restraining myself from barreling towards her and throwing my arms around her.  “You’re soaked.”
    She opens her lips, which are bright blue.  “It’s cloudy.  Clouds are wet.”
    “Can I check your pulse?”
    She recoils, her eyes widening.  Wherever she’s been, it’s not been good for her whole physical contact issue.  “Why?”
    “I think you might be hypothermic.”
    She casts her eyes down, and I step closer.  I clasp her wrist, which is cold as marble, and put the tips of my two forefingers to the vein.  Her heartbeat thumps very slowly.  I know from a course I took on human biology that this is a symptom of hypothermia.  The textbook choruses in my head:  Remove wet clothing and replace it with dry, warm clothing. Give the person something warm to drink.  Make use of hot water bottles, warm baths, or heat packs placed under the arms and on the chest. 
    “Do you have a change of clothes?” I ask
    She shakes her head, still looking down.
    I drop her wrist and walk to my dresser, pull open the bottom drawer, and take out a large gray hoodie and a pair of maroon sweatpants with a drawstring. 
    I hold them out to her.  “You should go take a hot shower.”
    She raises her head and looks at me uncertainly.  “Here?”
    “Yes.”
    “What about your parents?  Won’t they hear it?”
    “I haven’t showered yet.  They’ll think it’s me.  Anyway, it’s just my mom downstairs, and she’ll be gone pretty soon.”
    She bites her lip, then takes the clothes and stands.  I lead her to the bathroom and show her where the towels are. 
    She closes the door behind me, and I hear the water surge on.  I turn away from the door and exhale, long and hard, letting all of the anxiety over Sammie’s disappearance wash out of me.  She’s okay.  She’s here.  She looks a little like someone pulled from the Atlantic after the Titanic sank, but other than that, she seems fine.  A little skittish, but how is that new?  For right now, all is right with the world.
    Voices drift upstairs, coming from the kitchen.  One is high and friendly — my mother’s — but the other is low and talking quickly.  Terror seizes me.  Michael Thorne is in my house, talking to my mother.  I fly down the stairs as quietly as I can and peer around the corner, careful not to let myself be seen. 
    “You know what they say about wolves in sheeps’ clothing,” Thorne says, sitting at the kitchen table beside Mom.  Both study a piece of paper:  the photograph of Sammie, the same one he showed me yesterday. 
    “She might look harmless as apple pie, but she’s a very dangerous criminal,” Thorne says.  “Are you sure you haven’t seen her?”
    My mother looks up, her brow puckered with concern.  “I’m sure, Officer.  Do we need to be concerned about crime in the area?”
    “Not anymore.  I’ve got more people patrolling the neighborhood than ants on a sugar spill.”
    I shift my weight, and the floor creaks beneath me.  Both Mom and Thorne look up.
    “Damien?” Mom says. 
    I step into the kitchen, eyeing Thorne. 
    He gives me a wide smile, but his gray eyes are menacing.  “Why aren’t you in school, young man?”
    “I’m feeling sick,” I snap, though my stomach flutters.  Thorne is clutching something at his waistband, and I’m scared it might be a gun. 
    “I thought you were in the shower,” Mom says, and we all listen to the whine of the water in the pipes.
    “Yes, who is that in the shower?” Thorne says, standing.
    I move myself in front of the hallway.  “No one.  I was about to get