Page 9 of The Slug Crystal
Alina gives him a look and responds with a bit of sass. “Obviously.”
My hands are shaking as I stand up, and I nearly drop my phone. “What if she says no? What if she calls the cops? Or what if we get there and she’s just… normal, and thinks we’re deranged?”
Jake looks at me, his blue eyes gentler than I deserve. “We’ll handle it. One disaster at a time.”
“Oh shit,” Alina says suddenly, looking down at her phone. “I can’t go. I have a double tomorrow that I’m covering for someone else. Could we leave on Tuesday instead?”
The thought of seeing the spell’s creator in person is both terrifying and, somehow, the only thing keeping my head above water. If this doesn’t work, I will have to live knowing that I turned a human being into a snail and then just… kept him in a tiny log cabin forever. But if it does work, maybe I’ll finally be able to look at myself in the mirror without flinching.
I stare at the Instagram photo, inspecting the galaxy-blue nails and the potential promise of answers.
“This is our only shot,” I whisper, and even though it’s supposed to sound brave, it comes out like a prayer. “I don’t think I can wait two more days,” I admit.
Alina nods, looking crestfallen, but her voice sounds peppy when she adds, “I understand. You’ll just need to keep me updated at all times. Let me help you pack and transfer these snacks into your bag.”
I laugh and nod. “Okay, sorry, Lina.”
“The most important thing about this mission is reversing snail-gate. Don’t worry about me,” she says, smiling easily.
“I can go, even if we have to take a few days off,” Jake says, calm and even. Jake is always there for me, reliable and steadfast. It’s why he’s one of my best friends.
I nod. Then, he offers me his hand, steady and warm, and together we start to plan. Despite wanting to leave immediately, we decide to wait until the next morning, so Jake can head home and pack a bag.
After saying our goodbyes, I head to the couch, setting Alex on the coffee table and turning on Twilight for comfort.
Sunday, 6:04AM. The sunrise over my apartment parking lot looks exactly like an inspirational desktop wallpaper, except for the litter and the hungover guy in pajamas two cars down, leaning against his car and flicking cigarette ash onto the tops of his slippers. I’m squinting into the light, hoodie zipped to my chin, butt resting on the seat at an angle as I tap on the paneling of the open passenger door of Jake’s dark blue Ford F-150. The inside smells like pine-scented wipes and the ghost of a protein bar he’s recently demolished.
Jake stands at the rear bumper, trying to wedge his duffel bag into the covered bed between a spare tire and a crate full of what looks like… emergency snacks? Eventually, he gives up and just tosses it on top of everything else. It lands with a thud, and I cringe, hoping there isn’t anything breakable inside. He rounds the truck, pauses, and then pops the back door of the cab to check on the real VIP. Snail Alex.
Our Alex is safely enclosed inside his portable terrarium, the whole thing burrito-wrapped in two layers of bubble wrap, per Jake’s insistence, and locked into place with a seatbelt. "Mollusks are like eggs with consciousness. Breakable and they should be protected," he says, while checking on the terrarium. I’m pretty sure it’s a phrase he stole from Reddit.
The snail is dormant, clamped down to the fake log, which seems like a metaphor for this whole trip.
Alina’s text from ten minutes ago glows on my lock screen: knock em dead. get receipts. if you die i want the truck.
Laughing, I type out a quick reply of agreement, then twist fully into my seat and close the door behind me. Jake hops in next and starts the engine, leaving the parking lot and entering the light early morning traffic heading out of the city.
By the time we hit Route 95, the city is a rearview fantasy, and my thigh is buzzing from the heat of the sun and the nervous energy coiled in my bloodstream. I stare out the window at the zipper of the highway, counting the miles on the mile markers with a hysterical kind of focus.
The terrarium now sits on the console between us, still swaddled in bubble wrap and an old towel, while Alex-the-snail clings to the glass side with the dogged tenacity of a motivational poster. He moved from his backseat position about twenty minutes into the drive, after I started to worry that he felt left out.
Jake drives like he runs. He’s efficient, patient, but always a little faster than strictly necessary. There’s a soft playlist coming through the speakers, something acoustic and generically angsty, but the real music is in the way he drums his fingers on the wheel and hums tunelessly during the instrumental breaks.
He’s been quiet for most of the last hour, letting me process or maybe just letting himself process. I know his mind is spinning. He never does anything on a whim, especially not road trips involving supernatural liability and the risk of getting murdered by a stranger named Sarah Demarco.
At the next rest stop, Jake pulls over for gas and snacks. He disappears into the minimart, and I’m left with the snail and my own self-doubt. I poke at my phone, rereading Alina’s latest texts. Current count: nine, most of themvariations on don’t die and remember sunscreen, the UV index is insane today.
I scroll through my emails for a reply from Sarah, but there’s nothing except a new message from Snail World. Your Weekly Gastropod Fact: Some snails can sleep for three years straight!
I sigh. “Lucky bastards,” I tell the terrarium, watching Alex lay on or eat a piece of lettuce. It isn’t clear which.
Jake returns with two bottles of cold brew and a crinkly bag of protein bars. He hands me one of each, then buckles in and glances over with a look that says he’s trying to read my mind but is too polite to ask.
I rip open the bar and take a dramatic bite. “Did you know snails can sleep for three years?”
Jake looks at the snail, then at me. “I wish I could sleep for three hours.”
“Didn’t you just set a personal best on your nap app last week?”
