Free Fear My Mortality by Everly Frost Page B

gloves.
    “Where are my clothes?”
    “We brought you new ones from home.” Mom looked as if she was about to burst into tears again.
    I snatched up the bag and raced into the bathroom, pulling on fresh jeans and a t-shirt.
    In the bathroom mirror, my eyes had dark rings under them. My skin was stretched out, strained. If only Josh was still alive. I had so many questions for him: why was he with the Bashers? Why was he trying to take me away? How did he survive his Implosion, only to die at mine?
    I pushed through the door to find Mom and Dad waiting. They gathered me up between them, Dad supporting both of us with his big arm reaching across my back, his fingers curling around Mom’s arm. Out of the room and down the corridor, the recovery nurses at their station watched us go. It felt worse than falling in the middle of a performance. Even in the spotlight, I could pretend it was deliberate—bounce right back—but there was no escaping this.
    I was too busy watching my sneakers to notice the people crowding the front doors until Dad pushed them open and the shouting hit me.
    Lights flashed. News drones hummed and hovered, broadcasting video live into people’s homes, my face splashed across air screens everywhere. Reporters rushed toward me, pushing at each other.
    “Ms. Holland! Ava!”
    One of them shoved a microphone into my face, hitting me on the chin. My hand flew to my face, aware that it cut me. There was a flash of red as I checked the wetness on my fingers before a stranger’s voice intruded.
    “Ms. Holland! Is it true you can die?”
    I opened my mouth to speak. No comment . That’s what I was supposed to say. That’s what everyone said when they had something to hide. But it turned out I didn’t have to speak because the crowd was suddenly silent.
    Only Dad moved, pulling closer to me, still hugging Mom. He squashed me against him, ramming his body between me and the reporters while the guy who’d hurt me gaped at me.
    No. Not at me. At my chin. They all were. Waiting for the cut to prove them right or wrong.
    I sensed the warmth where the blood continued to pool.
    “She isn’t healing.”
    “Oh, my God.”
    “Is the drone getting this? We need this footage.”
    Another reporter shoved in, right up in my face, his voice an accusation. “Is it true that mortality is contagious?”
    Then he paled, staring at the blood on my skin as though he’d just realized how close he was to me. He went from white to red as he backed away. “Let the drone get the footage.” Suddenly they all were looking at each other and then at me, their determination to catch the latest headline turning into something else—caution.
    Dad crushed me against him, right next to Mom, and barreled sideways through the reporters. They scattered as drones buzzed and swarmed around our heads, trying to wedge between us. My face ended up pressed inward so nobody could see my chin. Except for Mom, whose eyes were filled with tears. She didn’t stop staring at the red smears on Dad’s shirt as though there was a scream in her throat that wouldn’t come out.
    Finally, security arrived and cleared a way for us. All I wanted was to disappear into our car and wind up the windows. If only I had a hood, I could pull it over myself and hide behind it. I sank into the back seat as the security guard slammed the door.
    A horrible, sliding, sick feeling filled my chest cavity. What if the crazy reporters followed us? What if we had a car accident trying to get away? What if Bashers blew up my house or my school?
    What if I died?
    I wasn’t ready to die. I had too much to do yet. I wanted to dance. I wanted to make it to the big league—all the way to the Conservatorium in the northern city, Glade. Hannah and I would go together. I wanted to travel, to leave Dell and see the other cities, maybe even go to the central region and see Evereach’s capital city, Chasm. And some day I wanted to kiss somebody—somebody who cared. But there