Embers & Ash Read Free Page A

Tell me to save the last shred of myself so I can be with you, and be happy!
    I couldn’t let him tell me those things because I might do them.
    I might leave Chicago behind if he told me in his reassuring voice that another existence was possible.
    Except it wasn’t, and I would never leave the city without my family.
    Good-bye, Max,
I thought, hanging up.
    And then the Lincoln filled with flashing red light and the
bwaa! bwaa!
of a fire engine’s horn. I twisted the keys as the car roared to life, realizing what an idiot I was, waiting to be attacked. But no—the large red truck sped past filled with goggle-free firemen, kicking up a swell of water. I exhaled, watching it go, and then stepped on the gas and headed toward the Bird Cage Club.
    Back to the life that was my only choice.

3
    IN CONTRAST TO THE RAIN CLOUDS BLANKETING the Loop—Chicago’s nickname for its vast downtown area, looped by elevated trains—entering the Bird Cage Club at the top of the Currency Exchange Building was like walking into an exploding star.
    A large, round electrical outlet stood in the middle of the former speakeasy; in the 1920s, its huge lightbulb sent out a beacon to alert thirsty Chicagoans that illegal booze was flowing. Doug had been trying to make it work for months, and now, blinking into its intense glare, I realized he’d succeeded. “Doug!” I said, shielding my eyes. “You’re burning the retinas out of my head!”
    â€œOh! My bad!” he said, and the room went gray. “You didn’t come right back after I texted you, so I decided to work on it, and guess what? It wasn’t the bulb after all! It was the wiring! I ripped out the old . . . ,” he said, and then paused. “You’re soaked.”
    I saw him clearly now—baggy jeans, T-shirt bearing one of his favorite movie quotes (“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”), and a welder’s mask over his face. “Would you take that off?” I said. “I’ve endured enough freaky eye coverings for one day.”
    It clanged to the floor as he crossed the room. “The goggle guys again?”
    â€œTwo of them. In a ComEd van this time.”
    â€œYou escaped, obviously. Where are they?”
    â€œNot heaven.”
    â€œCrap. Did you . . . ?”
    â€œYeah, I did. One of them, at least,” I said quietly. “I didn’t mean to.”
    He spotted my burned fingers and lifted his eyebrows. “Looks like he touched a live wire named . . . um, let me guess . . . Sara Jane?”
    â€œSomething like that.”
    In his best therapist voice, he said, “You want to talk about it?”
    â€œNo. I think I’m okay,” I said.
    â€œExcept for that hand. Listen, I can say this because we’re BFFs . . . you’re an idiot.” He hurried away and returned with ointment and bandages. “You have to take an aspirin every day or you’ll fry yourself . . .
to . . . death!
Do I really have to remind you?”
    He didn’t, but he did, and still I avoided taking the pills.
    Watching Doug dress my wound, I realized again how much I depended on him, and as his own hand shook slightly while applying medicine to mine, I thought of how much he’d endured over the past several months. He’d beaten his addiction to Sec-C, the drug-infused soft serve ice cream, and emerged dramatically thinner. Exercise was sharpening the edges of his body. His face, with its ruddy complexion and spray of freckles, had grown angular, and even the sandy-colored bush on his head had been reshaped into a presentable haircut.
    Step-by-step, my friend was taking control of his physical self.
    It was his emotional self that concerned me.
    Once he was clean, Doug’s natural obsessiveness had come roaring back, fixated on the Troika of Outfit Influence. He was as crazed as I was to find that