Lines bleed from the end of my pen, creating chaotic scenes—a monster with a skull face and the figure of a hot girl. Behind her are swirls of smoke, but nothing definitive or familiar. I tear the page from my tablet, wad it up and toss it onto the floor, then collapse back onto my bed. I consider finishing the last of the weed I have hidden under the paints and brushes in my art bag, but decide I’ll save it for when I sneak over to Cindy’s. She could use it, after everything she’s been through. Besides, why waste it out of boredom? Who knows when I’ll ever get any more?Mom’s been freaking out because Miles hasn’t been home in three nights. She spoke to him on his cell the first night and he claimed he’d be back the next morning, but nothing. No more calls, texts. I’m torn between thinking he’s dead (or infected) or else, he’s taken off for somewhere safer, leaving Mom and I to take care of his screaming brat, who must be napping because the house is eerily silent.That silence is quickly broken with a crash.
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