Page 152 of It Happened on a Sunday
“Yeah.” I nod. “I agree.”
“If you don’t need anything, I’m going to head back out. I want to grab a shower before the press conference.”
“Of course, man. Go.”
“Try to get a little more sleep, will you?” he says as he starts to turn around. But then he stops abruptly and holds up the bag I just now realize he’s carrying. “Hey, can you take this for when Sloane wakes up?”
“What is it?”
He grins, and it’s the first real smile I’ve seen from him, or anybody, in more than forty-eight hours. He reaches into the bag and pulls out a giant black widow spider. It’s larger than Sloane’s head, and written in metallic Sharpie all over its body and giant, squishy legs are dozens, maybe hundreds, of get-well messages. And right in the center of the red hourglass on its body is the hashtag #BlackWidowStrong.
I reach for it like it’s a lifeline. “Where did you get this?” I ask, my voice breaking on the last word.
“From her fans. You should look out the window sometime. There’re close to a thousand of them down there—they’ve been cycling through for hours, bringing gifts, flowers, cards.” He nods to the plushie. “Spiders. And all of them have a story, some way that she’s touched their lives or even saved them. I’ve never seen anything like it. I just wish Sloane could—”
His voice cracks, and he shakes his head and looks away.
I reach out to lay a comforting hand on Marco’s shoulder. The silence, like the fear, settles heavy between us. And then I hear it.
“What is that?” I demand.
“It sounds like a guitar,” he answers, eyes going wide.
My breath slams out of my lungs as I whirl around and see—through the privacy curtain half pulled over the glass door to Sloane’s room—her sitting up in bed.
Guitar in her lap.
Fingers on the strings.
Playing like she never stopped.
Chapter 67
Sloane
It happened on a Sunday…
I wake up slowly with song lyrics in my head and the sound of machines beeping all around me.
When the first three notes arrived…
I look up, trying to find my bearings. Searching my memory for some clue as to where I am and what’s going on.
A major chord that thundered through…
It looks like a hospital, but that doesn’t make sense. The last thing I remember is being at the Twisters’ party with Sly. Pauline was there, and I was going to sing with her. I was excited for that.
The silence I’d survived…
I try to sit up, and something twinges in my hand. I glance down, only to realize there’s an IV in the back of it. Which means I reallyamin a hospital, though I don’t know why.
“Sly?” I call out, trying to find him. He doesn’t answer.
But that doesn’t seem right. I don’t remember getting here, don’t remember what happened toputme here, but I remember him. Stroking my face, holding my hand, singing a very off-tune version of… I try to capture the song, but it’s dark, nebulous. I can’t find the words.
It happened on a Sunday…
I remember hearing him crying, though. Is that right? Was Slycrying? The thought has me sitting up in bed, heart pounding and mouth desert-dry.
