Page 128 of Warrior

This person has shoes with laces, though, and they’re not the drab gray I’ve seen everywhere else in the past two days.

Against my better judgment, I enter the room. I stop right at the edge of the desk and stare down at the bright-blue shoes. They look soft, like fake suede, and the laces are black. There are little lightning bolts on the sides.

Not my color, but cute.

And curious.

When I turn to leave, someone blocks my way. A girl maybe double my size.

“Hi,” I blurt out, trying not to seem startled.

“Like them?” She points at the shoes.

Well, she points at my chest, but I’m blocking the desk. So I can only assume what she means.

“They’re very pretty.”

“They came for Sleeping Beauty.”

I squint at her. “What?”

“Gifts come for her, but she doesn’t need them. So I took them.” She shifts out of the doorway, leaving me a gap to slip through.

“Where is Sleeping Beauty?”

“One-oh-nine.” The girl picks up the shoes and cradles them to her chest. “Imagine if one day she woke up and found her bed covered in presents? She’d be sick with it, I think. I’m just helping.”

I nod carefully. “You’re right.”

Remind me to lock my door—oh wait, no one’s sent me a damn thing.

I have a pad of paper and pencil in my desk drawer. Dr. Hawthorne has suggested that I write letters to my loved ones. But how am I supposed to begin to explain…? I assume Reese gave a summarized version to Saint. Maybe Antonio. No idea about Kade.

They feel so far away.

My watch beeps. It’s not a smart watch, but it has alarms built into it for the daily group therapy, which happens twice a day.

Lucky me.

Putting Sleeping Beauty out of my mind, I leave the girl to her stolen shoes and prepare to spill my guts.

Dear Saint,

I’m sorry.

I kind of just left on you, didn’t I?

Part of me hopes Reese explained it all. The details that I told, the stuff that he noticed… Another part of me really, really hopes he didn’t. That part—the delusional part—wants you to hear it from me.

How I succumbed to addiction, how Gabriel got under my skin.

I’m sixteen days sober. My headache has subsided, and the bone-deep ache is finally abating. Sleep doesn’t come too easily, and much to my roommate’s annoyance, I toss and turn for much of the night.

Ah, well.

Sixteen days.

Seems like I’ve been gone two months, not two weeks and two days.

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