“Look up Nora Fitzgerald on Facebook,” I command, fed up with the back-and-forth. Megan crawls off the bed and searches for Nora.
“No account,” she reports. “But maybe she’s one of those dorks who’s taking a stand against social networks. We should totally blog about that, by the way.”
“She’s not,” I say. “But just in case, search for Gina Geiger. She’s Nora’s best friend.”
“Okay, here’s Gina,” Megan says. “Whoa, check out that red lipstick. Is she a tranny?”
“Focus,” I say. “Look through her friend list.”
“Love to, but I can’t without friending her. Want me to?”
“No, let’s figure it out another way.”
“Should I go back to the original plan of friending Nora directly?” Megan asks.
“Shh,” I say, holding up a hand. “I’m thinking.”
The room is still for a few moments.
“Just Google Nora Fitzgerald and see if anything comes up,” I say as a last resort. I listen to Megan’s nails clicking against the keys.
“Here’s something,” she says, clicking on a link. I climb off the bed and walk up behind Megan as the page is loading. I realize that we’re looking at the Frozen Hills newspaper, then scan the rest of the page. Megan and I both gasp when we see the headline:
LOCAL TEEN KILLED IN DRUNK DRIVING ACCIDENT
“I guess you were right,” Megan says quietly.
“Guess so.”
twenty-seven
An unwilling night owl, I’m not asleep when I hear a knock on the front door at five AM. I wonder whether Alicia’s expecting someone as I listen to her shuffle through the condo to answer. There’s whispered conversation, and I’m surprised to realize that one of the low voices is Mason’s. Footsteps approach and the door to Megan’s room cracks open, spilling in a stream of light.
“Daisy?” Alicia whispers. “Mason’s here to see you.”
“Okay,” I whisper before crawling over the sleeping Megan. I tiptoe across the carpet and close her door behind me. When I’ve joined Mason, Alicia leaves us alone. I’m light sensitive and squinting, with my arms over my chest and my hands in my armpits because I’m not wearing a bra.
“I’m going to take you back to Omaha,” Mason says softly. “Cassie’s going to finish up here. I’m so sorry to tell you this, but Audrey’s in a coma. It’s likely that she’ll die very soon.”
My jaw drops. I blink. I blink again.
How can he tell me this when I’m still wearing pajamas?
I’m not sure why I expected a filter from him. He deals in death: It’s clinical, not personal. I’m not sure why I expected more of a warning from Audrey. I’m not sure why I expected anything at all. This is how people with no access to Revive end their lives: inconveniently and with no buffer.
They go into comas.
And die.
twenty-eight
I’m so concerned about Audrey—playing a loop of the last few times we saw each other in my head—that I’m barely even aware of the flight home. When we land, we get our luggage and find the car, then head straight to the hospital from the airport. But even as we’re driving there, Mason tries to talk me out of going.
“Daisy, I brought you back so you could say goodbye to your friend, but I’d like you to consider something.”
I don’t speak, so he goes on.
“You don’t have to go to the hospital. Audrey would understand.”