Page 58 of Good Half Gone

He knits his eyebrows, frowning so deeply I stop walking.

“If I tell you they’ll kill me. Don’t stop walking, they’re watching us. Act normal.”

I walk slower this time. We weren’t supposed to get drawn into the patients’ drama, potentially feeding a delusion. I needed to keep him calm and get help.

Crede warned me that Vespa purges his meds when left unsupervised. The short-staffing issue made it impossible to keep your eye on everyone all the time. I spot Crede behind the care station and try to make eye contact, but his gaze slides right off of me and goes back to what he’s doing.An elephant show plays on the TV. Three female patients sit together on the couch wearing paper crowns they painted in art class the day before. There is a remotely competitive game of Ping-Pong happening in the common area; a handful of onlookers lurk around the table. No one is looking at us, of this I’m sure.

Vespa is breathing hard. I can tell he’s grappling with what to tell me.

“You can tell me,” I say, soft enough so only he can hear. “Nothing bad is happening. You’re safe here.”

“I heard them talking about it. They said it—not me. They’re lunatics… You should ask them about it before everyone ends up dead.”

Dead?I stop walking. “Ask who, Vespa? I don’t understand…”

He takes a step toward me. Both sides of his belt are dragging on the floor. The next thing he says sends chills down my spine.

“Marshal… Jude…”

I could be anywhere at all—in an airport, at a concert, in a grocery store—and if I hear someone say the name Jude, I will stop everything and look.

“What did you say?”

Vespa’s face twitches, and he reaches for his robe. I rein in my reaction, smiling through clenched teeth and mental profanity. The name itches beneath my skin—Jude,Jude,Jude. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to ground myself. Vespa knows something’s up. His yellow/brown eyes grow wide. Gran once commented that a strange light came into my eyes when someone said his name.

“Did you just get the chills?”

“No,” I lie. “Jude from D? That Jude?” I look at the door for D unit, and Vespa follows my eyes. I feel a spurt of excitement and squash it down. Not now. We’re almost to the care station. If Vespa doesn’t answer me now, I don’t know that he ever will. Something or someone has scared him.

“Vespa…?”

He nods suddenly, and then his eyes go flat. He studies the ceiling with a pained expression, his lips working silently. I don’t want to push him too hard and make him shut down.

I lick my lips, then ask him one more time, my heart pounding in my ears.

“V, does Jude come out of his room? Have you seen him?”

Lynnie, a nurse I’ve only worked with a couple of times, comes barreling out of A hall, her eyes glued to my face.Uh-oh.Underneath her bleached pixie cut, her expression is exasperated. The closer she gets the less chance I have of Vespa answering me. I grab his arm and feel the damp string of his robe under my palm. Ignoring the urge to jerk back, I look in his eyes with such concentration he can’t look away. His Adam’s apple bobs mercilessly under my scrutiny, but I refuse to look away.

“He’s so afraid of having nightmares he won’t sleep.”

I try to keep my face neutral, but he smacks a hand over his mouth like he’s angry with himself. “I’ve said a bad thing.”

I shake my head casually. “No, you’re just chatting with me. It’s fine.” I’m trying not to mess this up.

“I’ve said a wrong thing…” he repeats, looking unsure.

“No, you haven’t.” My tone is firm. Lynnie is on top of us. I lock my jaw and smile stiffly.

“What are you doing out here? I thought I told you to go straight to the cafeteria. Goddamn, I need my coffee…”

“He’s having a bad morning,” I say quickly. She opens her mouth to say something else, but I cut her off. “I’ll walk him over. Why don’t you get that coffee and I’ll take over for you.”

Five minutes later, I have Vespa seated at a table with two boiled eggs, tomatoes, toast, and a glass of milk. I stare across my watery bowl of oatmeal. He hasn’t said a word since we got to the cafeteria, and I’m worried he’s shut down entirely without telling me what I want to know.

He grimaces as he peppers his tomatoes, glancing up every few seconds to glare around at the occupied tables. “It’s a death march in here. Everyone stinks.”

I watch as he cuts his tomatoes into little pieces, then eats them one at a time.

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