Free A Season for Fireflies by Rebecca Maizel Page B

space. It’s May. I know it’s May but I don’t want to say it out loud. I don’t like the way they’re allstaring at me, like there’s something wrong.
    â€œPenny, can you answer your dad?” Dr. Abrams says.
    â€œMa-May,” I say. “Tech w-w-eek.”
    â€œTech week?” Mom whispers to Dad.
    â€œIt’s September eighteenth, Penny,” Dr. Abrams says slowly.
    Out of the corner of my eye, I see a newspaper on the windowsill. I stretch out my hand and Mom gets approval from Dr. Abrams before handing it to me. He nods once and Mom gives me the newspaper. With vibrating fingers, I pull it closer to my eyes.
    September 18th, 2016.
    I grip the paper and bring it close to my face. The black letters are blurry. I need to squint.
    2016. I rub at my eyes with the back of my hand so the IV scratches at my eyebrows.
    2016 . . .
    2016 . . .
    2016 . . .
    I can’t move. Someone is pressing on my legs to keep me in the bed. I try and try to move.
    â€œWe’re going to need some help in here!” the red-haired doctor yells.
    Why do they need to keep me here? I’m deep in a black cavern and I want to crawl out. I am screaming, the vocal cords strain.
    It’s been more than a year.
    Mom brings her face close to mine.
    â€œPenny, it’s okay. We’ll explain. Everything will make sense.”
    Her hard fingers grip my burns shaped like vines. Heat rushes through my veins.
    2016.
    I don’t remember the past year.
    I don’t remember any of it.

SEVEN
    DAY ONE:
    Here’s what I know:
    The year is 2016.
    I have no memory from May 2015 through today, September 18th, 2016.
    In the hospital, my legs shake when they make me walk so they give me a shiny wheelchair. I want to be sitting on my bed at home with May. I want Panda to come over with potato chips and tell me about Taft’s insanity.
    I missed Christmas. I missed Panda’s New Year’s party. I missed Much Ado About Nothing .
    I want to see Wes so much that I curl up tight in the hospital bed.
    DAY TWO:
    The walker they give me has tennis balls on the feet.
    â€œPush, shuffle, push, shuffle,” the nurse tells me.
    The numbness in my right foot makes it more like: Push, drag. Push, drag.
    When I’m back in bed, I slip under the covers so the sheet is over my head. I don’t care that I look like I’m five. I can’t stop thinking about Wes and I want him to just pick up the phone and explain why he isn’t here harassing the nurses to see me. Why isn’t he here with Panda making jokes at the side of my bed? I hold the hospital phone close to my ear and dial. First ring, I hold my breath. Second and third, I silently beg that he’ll pick up—and at the fourth ring his voice mail picks up. “It’s Wes. Leave a message. Make it quick.”
    His voice is deeper. It was deep the last time we spoke but this is smooth. Like a—it’s weird to even think it. Like a man. It knocks me off my game and I stumble over my words once the phone beeps.
    â€œUm, hi. It’s Penny. I guess you heard about the lightning. I’ll be out in a couple of days. Anyway, I’m rambling so if you could call me back at the hospital that would be good. I have some questions. I—” My voice catches in my throat and I wince. “I just have some questions about what’s been going on. I don’t have my cell, it was damaged in the pool. So, um. Just call me back, okay?”
    I hang up and after a moment of holding my breath, I groan, wishing I had never called.
    DAY THREE:
    Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag.
    I miss running at the track with Wes on weekends. I miss the lemon water and the fights over what music we would listen to. I miss running eight-minute miles and leaving him far behind, panting, with his hands on his thighs.
    Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag. Push, drag . . .
    Why hasn’t he called me