Ex-Purgatory, Peter Clines [top ten books of all time .txt] 📗

“I’m not setting you up because we’re all acknowledging there’s no chance of anything happening. I’m just asking you to keep a third wheel occupied.”

George smiled and shook his head. “Are you buying drinks?”

“I got the tickets.”

“Someone gave you the tickets. And don’t you want to impress Nita the publicist with what a generous, high-powered agent you are?”

“That’s not how I’m hoping to impress her,” said Nick. “Fine, I’ve got you covered, don’t worry about it. You in?”

George drummed his fingers on his thigh. “Yeah, sure.”

Nick smiled and pulled out his phone. “Excellent. I’ll lock things down with her right now.”

“Hey,” called a man. He stood by one of the cars Nick’s Beemer was blocking. “D’you mind moving?”

Nick gave the man a quick wave and opened his door. “Talk more later,” he said to George. “You want to meet up tomorrow night? Grab a drink or three?”

“Maybe.” His Nextel chirped and he pulled it off his belt. He and Nick saluted each other with their phones.

The Nextel chirped again. “You there, George?”

George waved good-bye and the Beemer pulled out of the lot. “Yeah, what’s up, Jarvis?”

“You need any help with that couch?”

“Nah, no problem.”

“Get yourself back here, then. I need you to sign your timecard.”

George checked the time on the phone. Half an hour until quitting time, and if Jarvis was calling him back to the office there wasn’t anything left to do. Nothing that could be done in half an hour, anyway.

As he walked across campus he debated telling Jarvis about the falling glass. He didn’t want to lose a day with an unnecessary doctor’s visit. On the other hand, he knew a couple of people who’d held off mentioning injuries they thought were minor only to get a hassle from workers’ comp later when they turned out to be serious.

Of course, as far as he could tell, the big blade of glass hadn’t left any injuries, minor or otherwise.

George slipped past two families chattering away about classes and dorm life. Someone was already blasting music out of a window. A young man whipped past him on a bicycle.

He’d have to mention the shirtsleeve. It was too slashed up for a quick fix. He’d have to replace it. That would give him a chance to get the incident on record without actively claiming an injury.

A crowd of people approached. At least two or three families. They had the absent, flitting expressions of people trying to take in a lot of details while not really paying attention.

George stepped off the concrete path to go around them. If he picked up the pace he could be back in the office in under ten minutes. There was a slim chance Jarvis would even let him punch out early.

Then his stomach dropped. He’d forgotten to move his car. A day’s pay just vanished to a parking ticket, assuming it hadn’t been towed.

The crowd passed and revealed a woman in a wheelchair. She looked up at him and her face shifted. As George stepped back on the path he moved to the left and gave her a quick nod. He wanted to be sure she knew he saw her and wasn’t going to collide.

She tugged on the wheels of her chair, rolling it back into his way. He caught himself before banging his shins on the wide wheel. His legs jammed up for a second and he came to a stop.

The young woman had large eyes and dark hair that passed her shoulders. Her skin was the pale hue of someone who never got outside. A look of relief broke across her face as she stared at him. “Oh, thank God,” she said. “It’s you.”

George smiled. The price of wearing a uniform and an ID badge was everyone assumed you were there to help, but it didn’t really bother him. “What can I do for you?”

“I wasn’t a hundred percent sure you’d be here,” she said. “I thought I remembered you saying once that you worked here before, so I figured it’d be the best place to start looking. Mom and Dad weren’t happy with me switching schools at the last minute. I’ve been looking for you ever since we got here.”

He blinked. “Sorry,” he said. “Do we know each other?”

“George,” the young woman said, “it’s me. Madelyn.”

He blinked and looked at her. There weren’t many students he was on a first-name basis with, and he didn’t remember any in a wheelchair. Then he had the awful thought that maybe the young woman hadn’t been in a wheelchair the last time he saw her. He studied her face and tried to guess her height if she was standing.

She stared back at him and then her face fell. “Damn it,” she said. “You don’t remember anything, do you?”

“YEAH, I’M SORRY,” said George. “I think you might have me confused with someone else.”

Madelyn shook her head. “Nope.”

He tried to look apologetic. “I don’t know you.”

“I’m Madelyn Sorensen,” she said. “The Corpse Girl.”

“The what?”

“And you’re George Bailey,” she continued. “St. George? Formerly the Mighty Dragon?” She said the last two names—or maybe they were titles—in a hopeful way.

The use of his full name shook him until he realized that someone with good eyesight could read his name off his badge. And if she’d been in the wheelchair for a while, she was probably used to reading things from a distance. He glanced down at the gloves hanging off his belt, his name written on each one in big letters.

Madelyn watched his face. “Nothing?” she asked. “You don’t remember me?”

He shook his head.

“You have to remember,” she said. “What about Barry?”

“Who?”

“Stealth? You have to remember Stealth.”

“Is that a person?”

She smacked the arm of her wheelchair. “What about dreams? Are you having dreams?”

George paused. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night, still exhausted in the morning. “What do you mean?”

“They probably seem more like nightmares if you don’t remember anything,” she said. “Are they—”

“Maddy,” called a voice. “Everything okay, hon?”

She glanced back over