Page 44 of Sweet Nightmare

And no. Just no.

I’m not fourteen years old anymore, and neither is he. He doesn’t get to say shit like that and walk away from me. Not this time.

So instead of just letting him go, I chase after him, plunging through the underbrush and into the forest like an animal running for its life. And maybe I am—or at least, running for my sanity, because I can’t spend the next three years the same way I spent the last three, wondering what I could have done to make things turn out differently.

But Jude’s already gone, slipping through my fingers like the raindrops that fall so steadily around me. And still I run, still I chase after him, determined not to let this shred of hope disappear as easily, as completely, as he has.

But no matter where I look—the old huts, the boarded-up wishing well, the surrounding forest—I can’t find him. My heart settles heavily in my chest as I realize he really is gone. Again.

In the distance, I can hear sirens going off. The storm must be getting bad if my mom is resorting to the old hurricane sirens that she keeps locked up in the groundskeeper’s hut to call everyone back to the dorms. This is only the third time I’ve ever heard them in my life.

I really do need to get back. Maybe Jude is already heading there—hell, for all I know, he’s already changed into dry clothes while I continue to run around like a girl who can’t take a hint.

Shoving my hair out of my face for what feels like the millionth time since this wild goose chase began, I glance around and try to get my bearings. I’m close to the edge of the forest on the east side of the island now, which clears at the back of the dorms.

It’s a shortcut, one I don’t normally take because it involves going through the teachers’ quarters. But dry clothes are calling—and so is my bed—so shortcut it is. Besides, most of the faculty is probably at the dorms anyway, making sure the students don’t get into any trouble now that they’re all penned up.

As soon as I get close enough to the forest to get some cover from the trees, I pull out my phone and fire off a text to Eva.

Me: What’s going on? I hear the siren

Eva: Where are you???????

Me: Other side of the island

Eva: What?!?!

Me: Long story

Eva: Well, get your ass back here

Eva: There’s a mandatory meeting in the dorm common area in twenty minutes. If you’re not there, you’re going to end up living in that damn menagerie

Eva: Or getting blown away by this category-five hurricane

Me: It’s category five now?

Eva: Want to stay out there and find out?

Me: omw

I shove my phone back in my pocket and start moving again just as the loudest clap of thunder I’ve ever heard rumbles through the air. Wind whips through the trees with an eerie howl, sending leaves and sand into a frenzied dance as lightning spears the sky. Moments later, the ground beneath my feet shudders from the force of the strike.

I really need to get out of this mess.

I start jogging now, weaving in between the old, stooped trees as I head straight for the dorms. When Jude, Carolina, and I were young, we used to explore this forest all the time, so I know all the shortcuts. I turn left as soon as I get to the huge, ancient live oak tree at the center of the dirt path, and then I make a right at the tree blackened and split down the middle from a long-ago lightning strike.

It’s a straight shot between here and the dorms, and I start to run faster, determined to get back before my family notices I’m missing.

But as I weave between the trees, my stomach starts to feel funny. It doesn’t hurt, per se, just feels hollow and a little uneasy, which makes my whole body feel a little shaky all over. It’s probably just running around in the heat without any water—normally the rain cools the steamy September air off a little, but today’s storm just seems to be packing it on, turning the air more dense with each passing minute.

Add in the fact that the granola bar I grabbed for breakfast is the only thing I’ve eaten all day and it’s no wonder I’m feeling off. I’m sure it’s nothing a bottle of water and a sandwich can’t cure.

I weave around a couple more trees, the low-hanging moss tickling my arms, and then pass the therapy circle. The psychiatric faculty likes to lead hikes and group discussions through here sometimes. Apparently, they think walking through trees is much better than walking next to a giant wall that reminds people that there really is no getting off this island.

I don’t think it actually matters, though. Prison is prison, no matter what it looks like.

I’m in the deepest part of the forest now, where the tree canopy is so dense and moss so heavy that barely any rain penetrates the leaves. But that means that very little light filters through them, either, so I once again use my flashlight to illuminate the way as I wind through the thick expanse of trees. Despite the light, shivers work their way down my spine as the leaves rustle around me.

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