The Fifty-Seven Lives of Alex Wayfare by MG Buehrlen

can bother me. I can’t be distracted – I have to find my way back to Blue. Even if it is just a stupid hallucination, there’s no way I can just let it go now. Just forget everything that happened. I have to know if he got shot.
    If I caused him to get shot.
    Halfway back to my house I remember there’s an abandoned auto garage a few blocks ahead. The kind that looks like an old gas station, with rusted out pumps in front and weeds reaching up through cracks in the pavement. I pass it every day on the way to school, and every day there seems to be more amateur graffiti painted on the building’s faded bricks or another window broken out.
    Broken windows mean I can get inside.
    Four more blocks and I’m there, jogging right up to the overhead garage doors. Several glass panes at the bottom are busted out. I toss my backpack inside and crawl in, taking care not to snag my clothes on the jagged frame.
    Inside, shafts of light spill across an empty concrete floor, stained almost black from years of oil and grease and grime. A rodent scurries behind a stack of spiderweb-covered boxes in the corner, swollen from water damage. Two pigeons flutter and coo at me from a nest in the rafters. More graffiti covers the walls like wallpaper, each angsty statement vying for center position. I smile when I see For a good time call scrawled above Tabitha’s name and number.
    I drop my backpack against the wall under Tabitha’s number, and it echoes throughout the vacant room. I sit beside it, resting my back against the cool concrete block wall.
    It’s so quiet. I only hear the whoosh of the occasional passing car, the rustling of the pigeons above me, and the random squeak of the old JOHNSON’S AUTO sign outside.
    I close my eyes and tip my head back against the wall, only to feel a sharp pain when I do. My hand flies to the back of my head, right to that blasted bruised knot beneath my ponytail. It’s smaller than in my vision, but it’s there. A little bit of dried blood is tangled in my hair. I feel my ribs for more bruises and every last one is accounted for. The slice inside my lip still gives off that salty tang. Even my right fist aches. Not broken – I can flex it – but the longer I focus on it, the more it hurts. Luckily I didn’t take a fist or elbow to the face. I can’t imagine having to explain that to Mom and Dad. A few bruises I can hide. A busted jaw? Not so much.
    I slam the fist that doesn’t hurt onto the floor. It all felt so real. It had to be real. It couldn’t be a hallucination. It was like I traveled back in time, set foot in a different decade, breathed 1927 air, then brought all the evidence back with me.
    I close my eyes and try to find my way back to Blue.
    Nick.
    I picture the alley, Loogie’s thin, stretched lips, Nick’s blue-green eyes, the feel of the broken milk bottle in my hand. I summon all the sights, smells, and sensations and try to bring on déjà vu, but it doesn’t work. I’m still sitting in the garage beneath Tabitha’s number.
    I stand and go through the motions of the fight. I can feel the grubby hands of the thugs on me. I kick and spin and slice and punch until I’m sweaty, not even caring if I bring on an asthma attack. But when I open my eyes, I’m still in the garage. The pigeons are staring at me. And I feel like a complete idiot.
    My knees meet the floor. I pull my sleeves over my palms and swipe at the beginnings of tears. I close my eyes and hide in the darkness of my sleeves, sniffling. There’s only ever been one thing I’ve seriously prayed for on my own, and the weaker Audrey gets, the more I wonder if God even gives a damn about my prayers. But praying is my last resort. I don’t know what else to do.
    Please send me back. I have to know what happened to Blue. I have to know if he’s all right. If it was real, if there was any truth to my vision at all, send me