Page 172 of Not Quite Dead Yet

‘I’m sorry,’ Billy cries.

Jet isn’t. She’s home, because she’s here with Billy.

He holds her, tucks her hair out of her face.

Jet smiles up at him, fighting her eyes.

‘I love you, Jet.’

She knows that too.

‘Your letter, Billy,’ she whispers. He leans closer to hear her. ‘You have to read my letter.’

‘I will.’

He’s trying so hard not to scream again, she can tell, can feel it vibrating under his hot skin, the way he’s biting his lip.

‘It’s OK,’ she tells him. ‘Your letter.’

‘I’ll read it.’

Another promise.

Another blink.

Slower to come back this time, the other side of that tunnel.

Billy is crying over her, holding her to his chest.

‘Bi-lly.’ Not a word, just two detached sounds, her lips then her tongue.

‘Jet.’

She knows that when she closes her eyes, she won’t come back again. She knows. The tunnel is too far.

Jet stays as long as she can, not wasting a second.

The last thing she wants to see are those eyes, swim in them, and never find the end.

She blinks.

Saturday

November 15

Eight days later

33

‘Billy, what are you doing here?’

‘Hi, Dad.’

Billy placed his phone on the side table, screen hidden, watched his dad come down the painted blue stairs, slowing down, unsure.

Still wearing his suit.

Billy wearing his too.

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