As if he knows, he hands me a bottle of water. The seal is already broken. I give him a long look, full of suspicion and dark dread. The corner of his lips tilts up. “You’re thirsty.” “You’re drugging me.” “It’s a long way,” he says, not sounding apologetic in the least. Because he’s right, I take a sip. I am thirsty. And it’s a long way. Though most of all, I need those drugs to douse the raging fires in my mind—the joy, the pain. The fear. When the bottle is half-empty, I hand it back. Then I curl up against the leather, as far away from Giovanni as I can get. He’s the last thing I see before sleep claims me again. Dreams filter through the drug’s heavy shadows like glimpses of sunlight through the leaves. I remember his smile, sometimes shy, sometimes pleased, in the pool house. Then the picture changes—his face grows harder, darker, scarred. He doesn’t smile, not anymore. Just a tilt of his full lips, an echo of the boy he used to be. I dream of his hands, once so gentle and sweet.
