THE BLACK HIGH-HEELED BOOTS DIDN’T MOVE RIGHT AWAY. I lay on the floor, looking at them, trying to focus. Woods’s spectacled face emerged, painted with red lipstick. The dark brown wig was now askew, sitting like a nesting bird atop his head. He adjusted it and peered down at me. I tried to speak, but, unable to find any part of my body that made words, I decided that I must be dying, if not already dead. Apparently, Woods shared that opinion; he walked off, checking his sweater for something, probably blood.
The corridor was silent. I lay there, unable to move, watching the walls wobble and sway. Molly was my only thought, my only care. I couldn’t let Woods catch her, had to stop him. I listened for her voice, heard nothing. Not a sound. Why? My thoughts blurred. Move, I told myself. My body didn’t know how. Nerves had shut down, disconnected from muscles; muscles couldn’t respond. Had Woods severed my spinal cord? Was I paralyzed? Warm liquid pooled under me, and breathing was difficult. Inhaling was excruciating, took all my energy. But I was still breathing. That meant I was alive. And if I felt pain, some of my nerves must be alive, too. In that case, I should be able to move. To find help.
Slowly, with monumental effort, I managed to turn my neck, move my head to see the hallway better. Images pulsed unsteadily, but I strained my neck so I could see ahead. I pressed my shoulders against the floor and repositioned my head. I’d never been very aware of the floor, never paid attention to it. Now the floor seemed fascinating. Solid. Dependable. And very strong. I lay against it, letting it support me, realizing that it was my friend. It would help me. If I pressed one arm against it and rocked the opposite way, I’d be able to push off against it and roll onto my stomach. If I had the strength. I thought of Woods and Molly, closed my eyes, and pushed. Pressing and rocking, I began moving slightly from side to side.
I rocked from side to side until I had momentum. Then I pushed, gasped, gave a wrenching shove, and rolled over onto my stomach. Pain blinded me. Were the lights dimming, or was I passing out? I couldn’t pass out, had to stay awake. Get help. Find Molly. I waited for the pain to ease, heard only my own panting, no footsteps, no screams, no struggles. Grimacing, I bent my knees one at a time, lifted my hips, hoisted myself up with my elbows, and pushed forward, inching my way ahead. Finally the steel door was within a few steps. I pushed myself up, slipped, hit my head. Landed on my face. I lay there, face on cold linoleum, and knew I couldn’t make it. I wouldn’t be able to get help. I’d just about given up, accepting the fact that I would die, when I reached my arm out and touched cool steel. The security door. I’d made it this far, couldn’t stop now. I pushed ahead again, reached out another time—and froze, afraid to look at what my hand had found. I lay there, gathering the strength to raise my head and find out whose arm I’d grabbed. Finally, drawing a breath, I craned my neck.
Evie Kraus was wearing a bright blue sweatsuit. Crouched against the wall, she’d begun to sing, rocking back and forth in rhythm, cradling a bloody knife.