Murphy must have seen it in my face, because she pulled a deer in headlights for a second or two, then leaned in close to my ear and whispered, “What is it, Harry? Do you mean Maggie? The tent is only four feet away! What...”
My chest became a pounding waterfall suddenly, my vision wavering in and out with the flickering moonlight as I felt a rush of hot bile billow up and spill out from my mouth, burning my lips.
“N-no, Karrin listen to me. She can’t... she shouldn’t be alone! She...”
Murphy’s face became a frightened little cherub’s as my mouth grew thick and my tongue turned fuzzy.
“She who, Harry? Maggie? Molly? Please! Tell me what you-”
“Not her, not... Molly, not Maggie,” I managed, my drowsy mind absently running through the other set of lyrics to Bad Moon Rising.
Murphy yelled something to someone across the grounds, as the faint sound of gravel crunching under truck wheels spilled over me.
I didn’t feel like breathing deeply after that.
As strong hands lifted me into the bed of a truck, I tried again, and more words came out.
“Not... Maggie. Mab.”
Someone gasped. Finally.
A vision of the moon like Steinbeck’s pearl hit me then, as blood ran from my tear ducts, covering my pupils like the red sheer curtains at one of Toe-Moss’s clubs. I stared at the sky with my head in the lap of a blurry blond midget, counting stars until I couldn’t find any, until they all stopped blinking and began to grow wool.