Free Damaged by Amy Reed

of words.
    â€œI think you should go home for the day,” Bill says.
    â€œI’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds thin, like paper.
    â€œYou need a rest.” He smiles, and I know he’s trying to pretend it’s not a big deal. But I know he knows it is. “You need to rest your ankle so it gets better. Jessie and I can handle the rest of the day.”
    I nod because I’m too tired to speak. I am too tired to fight anymore.
    He helps me up. I scan the room and all the customers look away. They scuttle back to their seats, embarrassed for me.
    â€œYou don’t have to come in tomorrow if it still hurts, okay? Just give me a call later and let me know how you’re feeling.”
    I can’t tell if this is pity or kindness. I don’t know how to tell the difference. All I know is it hurts and I want Bill to stop looking at me like this, stop talking in this tone of voice. I just want out of here.
    I take off my apron and grab my backpack from under the counter. The restaurant is silent. Jessie’s sweeping up the smashed cones. Customers pretend to eat their meals, but their eyes keep darting over to the show behind the counter.
    â€œDo you want me to call Annie?” Bill says. “I bet she’d come by with the truck and give you a ride home.”
    I shake my head no and walk outside before he can protest. A wall of heat greets me as soon as I leave the air-conditioned building. I am vaguely aware that I should be feeling something. Humiliation, maybe. Shame. Fear. But I feel nothing. I am too tired and too empty to care.
    Camille, is this what it’s like to be a ghost?
    I get on my bike and start pedaling. I am not going home. I am not ready to be inside that house again, not ready to possibly face my mother. I just go and go until the forest opens to fields and the fields turn into neighborhoods and the sidewalks lead into town. I park my bike at the library. I am covered in sweat and my ponytail is only half-intact. I enter the library looking like a crazy person. I sit at a free computer and don’t even care who sees what I look up:
    how to do exorcisms
    Unfortunately, most sites say the first step is to be full of the Holy Spirit. Since the only time I set foot inside a church was at Camille’s funeral, I think that’s going to be pretty unlikely. I’m not sure Camille’s going to take me seriously when I tell her to be quiet in the name of Jesus. Most sites recommend hiring a professional exorcist. One says I should definitely wear purple. One says that demonic possessions are often mistaken for mental illnesses, but prescription medications will only make the demons sleepy. The further I look, the more I’m convinced I’m hopeless.
    â€œWhat are you trying to exorcise?” says a voice behind me. I scream, and the sound reverberates around the quiet library. I turn around and see Hunter. The handful of people scattered around the library stare at us. The librarian glares at me sternly.
    â€œSorry,” I mumble to the librarian. I turn to Hunter. “You are following me,” I growl.
    â€œThat’s kind of conceited, don’t you think?” He smiles his lazy smile. How can it be so easy for him to smile?
    â€œWhat are you doing in my town?”
    â€œ Your town?”
    â€œYou know what I mean.”
    â€œWellspring has a fine library. My town does not.”
    â€œWhat do you want with the library?”
    â€œIf you haven’t noticed, along with computers with which people can look up how to do exorcisms, libraries also have these things called books, which I coincidentally like to read.”
    My slow brain tries to formulate something cruel about being surprised that a loser like Hunter even knows how to read, but before I can say anything, a loud “Shush” comes from the direction of the librarian.
    â€œDid you call me yesterday?” I