She looks down at her beef jerky. "Maybe."

I feel ashamed. I rub the back of my neck and try to move our conversation back on track. "So no one knew? About Jesus?"

She shook her head. "No. He screwed his way through most of the women in Mexico before he 'settled down' with me."

I close my eyes, because the zing is back. It shoots down my neck and through my bicep, down into my fingers. d.a.m.n.

"Are you okay?"

I flip my eyes open and try to lie. "Yeah. For sure. Just tired."

"We should go to sleep, I guess. Or try to."

I sit up straighter, ignoring the h.e.l.l fire blazing down my arm. "Any ideas about when and how to leave without drawing attention from our friends?" I ask her. "I don't know if I can fix the bike this time."

She nods. "I have this fuzzy memory of Jesus having a garage somewhere in here. He should have a dirt bike. Possibly even a car. And there's a garage nearby where he keeps trucks. You know, like transfer trucks, for moving cargo." She scrunches up her face. "Drugs and guns."

"Okay. Well good to know."

"I wouldn't want to go to the garage because I bet they have that guarded, but if we're lucky, n.o.body knows about this place."

Jesus, there's that word again. Lucky.

Maybe if I'm lucky, I can dip into the wine cellar and dull some of my pain before the neuralgia takes my a.s.s down to the ground. It's not something I'd ever do in normal life, but then back in California, it's okay to spend a day or two flat on my back.

"I hope we're lucky," I tell her.

This guy is a surprise.

When we met, I bought the whole bounty hunter thing hook-line-and-sinker. He seemed exactly as he presented himself. Chill. Secret agent or whatever.

But now- He's had a stroke. He's in his twenties, and he had a stroke. That's crazy. Crazy bad. And I feel drawn to the crazy. It makes me feel less like an oddity.

And then he said that thing about being lucky, and I have to admit, it kind of ripped my heart in half. He seemed so...bitter. Sad. But it wasn't like he was bitter at someone. It was more like he was bitter with himself. I could feel some serious self-loathing coming from him.

I show him to one of the two guest rooms-the one done in a nautical theme-and when I close the door and go to the one across the hall, I find myself wanting to talk to him more. Not just to find out more of his story, but because my own story feels so heavy tonight.

The room I've picked for myself was done in several shades of brown and beige and cream, with lots of textures: suede, leather, cotton, linen. The rugs are soft. The curtains on the fake-out windows dance gently in the air coming from the air vents. I turn a full circle, taking stock of every inch of the room. Not one thing has changed. I step into the en suite bathroom, and there's the old claw-footed tub. The bear-skin rug (the one that's really a bear's skin). The cabinet.

I take two slow steps forward, and open the cabinet with shaking fingers. And there it is. My old toothbrush, from the last time I was here. The one and only time I wasn't in the bas.e.m.e.nt. It's pink and purple, with a tube of my favorite sensitive toothpaste on the shelf beside it.

I s.n.a.t.c.h the robe and gown out of the cabinet and dash back to the bed. I yank the covers down and climb beneath them and I think about my toothbrush in the bathroom and I start to cry. I cry because one time, I was almost happy here. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, there's a box of books Jesus ordered me. Second-hand books from a used bookstore online, and when Jesus and I came here so he could meet David, I would lie in bed and read all weekend. And my life sucked so much then, I was able to fool myself into feeling almost happy.

I think about my sweet kids at the clinic and I really sob, because that truly did feel almost perfect but it was never meant to last. And now I'm gone! I'm not in Jesus's world and I'm not helping anyone and there's nowhere for me in America and I'm no one! I'm never anyone for long enough to figure out who I am and nothing stays the same, no one can ever make it right-it's just me. Like a fish living in a sand box or on a table. I don't know what my version of water is, but I know I'm never in it. I can never get myself straight. I'm not even a real person, and it hurts worse now that I don't have the children or the Sisters or even Jesus to buy me used books.

I'm pathetic.

I just want to go to sleep.

I cry and cry and cry and cry, until I feel like my insides have turned to liquid. I think of Sean and the tears slow down. I think of family back in Georgia and I can't feel much of anything. Soon I'm just lying there on my back, staring at the canopy, and I find myself thinking about Evan again.

The way his face looked when he said he felt lucky.

I don't feel lucky either. That's my secret.

I want to feel lucky, and I want to be grateful, and I want to be thankful for the breaks I've had, but instead I just feel lost.

I'm hugging my pillow when I hear moaning.

CHAPTER NINETEEN.

I follow the sound to Evan's door and when I get there, I'm not sure what to do. Is he having some kind of nightmare? I knock lightly, but the moaning doesn't stop. I try the door, and it's locked.

"Evan?"

I'm answered with a moaned word I can't understand.

I knock there times, hard and loud. "Evan, are you okay? It's Meredith."

I pause, weirded out that I gave him my real name. For a long time, I went by Missy and then I was Merri at the convent.

"Evan?"

My whole body tenses as I wait for him to answer. Finally he does: "'M okay. Jus' sleepin'." But I can hear him making some other kind of sound, the kind of sound weight-lifters make at the Olympics when they're trying to lift like two tons.

I open my mouth to say No you're not sleeping, but I remember there's no reason to be talking through the door. Evan's bedroom has another entrance. Because this is the room Jesus built for other pleasure slaves: the kind who, occasionally, would pa.s.s through here before being routed to another market-often European. Male slaves. So the en suite bathroom is a bridge between the guestroom and Jesus and David's quarters.

Just as I step back to turn and go the other way, I hear another awful moan, followed by the rustling of bedding.

"Evan? What's wrong?"

He doesn't answer, and that really bothers me.

I take off running toward Jesus's door before I realize I won't be able to get in. I don't have the code for that. Frack!

I run a few steps back toward Evan's room before I think to check-just see. Maybe David left the thing open. I run a few dozen yards down and SCORE. The door is cracked.

I've only seen the room once, and I don't bother to see if it still looks the same, or what is in it. I fly into the ma.s.sive, kingly bathroom, unlatch the door to Evan's room, and burst inside like a marauder.

I don't know what I was expecting, but what I see isn't it. Evan is lying on the floor, curled over on his side, clawing his left hand with his right one and banging the back of his head into the three- or four-inch s.p.a.ce between the floor and the bottom of the low-slung bed frame. His eyes are squeezed shut, his teeth are clenched, and he's breathing like someone who's in a lot of pain.

I close the s.p.a.ce between us and drop down on my knees. I stare into his twisted face, realizing that the dark stuff on his lips isn't a wine stain; it's actual blood. He bites into the lip again, and I clamp my hand over my own mouth.

"Evan..." I whisper. "What happened?"

He doesn't make a move to open his eyes, only lifts his face just a little and draws his left arm up to his chest. The fingers of his right hand claw at his forearm; it's already lined with deep red scratches.

He moans again, and turns his head so the sweat on his forehead and face glistens in the low globe lights embedded in the ceiling. Another moan, one that sounds less human, followed by some more deep breathing. When he exhales, the sound seems like it's coming from the bottom of his lungs.

"Evan?"

"Sorry," he moans.

He curls over more tightly into himself and brings his right arm behind his head, pushing down against the back of his skull. He whimpers, and I'm pretty sure I'm going crazy watching this.

My hands are itching to touch him, itching to smooth his hair and find out where he's hurting, but I'm scared to hurt him more.

I shut my eyes as low, hoa.r.s.e sounds of anguish come from his throat. He's tugging at his hair now, flexing the fingers of his left hand-the one he said he couldn't move. He lets out a bunch of little moans, like someone's hurting him and he just can't get away. Then he pants some more, and I get on my knees and move around him, looking for something to explain this.

"Evan, can you talk to me? I want to help you."

"Can't," he grits out.

"Was it the alcohol?"

He presses the palm of his right hand against his forehead, opening his mouth more so he can breathe more deeply. "It's the...wreck."

His eyes screw shut, and I'm astonished to see tears slip down his cheeks. He gathers his knees up near his chest and bites his lip again, and I'm positive I've never seen anything more painful-looking in my life.

I take my own deep breath, sitting up on my heels beside him. "You don't mean this wreck, do you? You mean the one before. The one where you hurt your neck."

He sucks back a half-sobbed breath. "It's the nerves."

He grits his teeth and his body trembles as both of his hands make fists. I shut my eyes and try to process what he's saying. I'm not a doctor or a nurse, but I know the spine is made of vertebrae, the bones; discs; joints; and nerves. When you damage bones and discs and joints, the nerves can get pinched and damaged.

"Does this happen a lot?"

His breathing is faster now, like he's building to something, and I wonder if he's going to hyperventilate.

"Can I get you pain meds? I think there are some here."

His eyes flip open. "No," he growls.

His words sound almost slurred, but his eyes hold onto mine until I nod. "Okay. I won't if you don't want it."

And it's like while he was speaking to me, the pain caught up with him, because he's covering his face and breathing really loudly again now.

"Evan, I want to help."

"You...can't." He's panting, and his face is so pale, I wonder if he might pa.s.s out.

"What do you do to help the pain?"

He swallows, and there's a faint shake of his head, followed by an awful moan.

"How long does this last?"

He claws at his face, then starts to pull his hair again. "Day...or so."

I almost fall over. A whole day. That...can't be real.

"Can I do anything for you? Help you to the bed? Do you want me to rub your back? I do ma.s.sage sometimes. On children who've been injured. I've helped with pain management before..." and one of the key components is to do a few different stimulating things at once.

"Will it hurt you if I touch you?"

"No...worse," he pants. His eyes slide open just long enough to meet my own.

"I've got an idea," I say.

I'm vaguely aware that I'm walking through a room and Merri is holding me around the waist. I'm shaking pretty bad and leaning heavily on her. We come into a bathroom and the black tile is cool on my feet. I'm leaning over, looking down my legs. My left hand burns like a billion needles from the gunshot wound. I spread my fingers wider because the pain of the gunshot is better than the agony coming from my neck.

Pretty soon I get a bolt of pain that makes my knees give out and I'm on the floor again, but she's urging me toward this big room. It's a shower. Big shower room. The tile is cold on my face. I think I like it. There's water. Don't like the water. Then her hands. Those hands on my neck. G.o.d, my back. Those hands know what the story is.

Cold water. Hot water.

"Jus' keep rubbing."

I work his back and alternate cold and hot water from different jets in Jesus's mega-shower. I sometimes whack him on the b.u.t.t with a back-scratcher and other times I scratch the bottom of his feet. I learned this from Sister Mary Carolina. When someone's in severe pain, you can sometimes distract their brain from processing the pain signals by sending other signals. Signals for things that are only uncomfortable, like water that's a little too hot or icy cold, or long nails scratching the soles of someone's feet. I rub his back hard, like I'm trying to punish him. Most people get a lot of pleasure out of a borderline painful rub, but in Evan's case, that's not the point. I'm just trying to distract his brain from whatever's going on with his nerves.

I remember from the time I caught a bullet near my knee, that when my bed was super comfy and someone was stroking my hair, that's when my wound would hurt the most. I'd notice it less when a lot of things were going on. I would beg Jesus to take me out in his car with him, just to escape the pain.

I don't want Evan to be comfortable enough to feel his pain. I want to throw a million things at him, at once.

I exhaust myself, changing his environment. Hot water, cold water, slapping him, kneading, scratching. At one point he moans, "Pull my hair," so I go to work on that. The harder I pull, the happier he seems. "That's good," he moans, and I think I understand why his mouth was bleeding.

I wonder why he won't take pills, and I ask him one more time before he rolls onto his side and says, "No more."

Don't ask him again, because it's too tempting. That's what he means, I think. I wonder why he won't take anything. Wonder if I should force something down his throat-but I decide to respect his wishes.

I'm straddling his bare back; I've taken to pulling on his hair with one hand and pressing on his upper back with the other. I haven't seen him be this still or quiet in what feels like hours.

Then I realize he's asleep.

No way in h.e.l.l am I moving him. Lying on an uncomfortable surface is a great way to get through pain. I get a blanket, because he's soaked and I don't want him to get too cold. I get a pillow for myself, and I lie down beside him.

When he wakes an hour or two later, gripping my arm and weeping into the crook of his elbow, I start my no-pain show again. It goes all night. All day. I'm not even sure what time it is.

But n.o.body comes for us, and he gets through without quite as much moaning. No more screaming. A lot of the time while I work, he's just breathing.