by Peter King
When this first started I would scream or panic or even go for the window. The only thing I can do now is whisper.
To her. To me.
“That’s not the guy, Lorainne,” I say under my breath, but it does me no good because the thoughts keep coming.
“Besides, you’re dead, Lorainne. And I’ll never find him. That guy over there… that’s not the guy.”
It does no good, because my head still goes all swimmy. Whatever is trapped up there… it can wait no more.