Rae started to rise. "Should I get the nurses?"

I waved her down, then turned to Derek. "No."

He pushed his hands into his jean pockets, rocked back on his heels, then said, "Simon wants to talk to you."

"Does Simon have feet?" Rae asked. "A mouth? What are you? His faithful Saint Bernard, lumbering around, bearing your master's messages?"

He swiveled, putting his back to Rae. "Chloe?" There was a note of pleading in his voice that made my resolve falter. "Chloe, pi —" He held the /, stretching it; and for a second, I thought he was actually going to say "please," and if he had, I'd have given in, despite my reservations about being seen together. But after a second, he snipped the syllable off and stalked out.

"Bye!" Rae called after him. "Always a pleasure chatting with you!" She turned to me. "You are going to tell me what all this is about, right?"

"I promise. So how did swimming go?"

"Okay, I guess. Nice to get out, but not much fun. Simon swam laps, I can barely dog-paddle, so we went our separate ways. Nothing new there. They have a cool slide, though, and —"

She looked behind me again and offered a cautious nod.

"Hey," Simon said.

He perched on the love seat arm. I moved over to give him room, but Rae was on the other side, so I couldn't go far, and his hip brushed my shoulder.

"I —" I began.

"Don't want to go outside," he finished for me. 'That's cool. We can both hide out from Derek in here, see how long it takes him to find us."

"I'll leave you two —" Rae began, pushing up from the sofa.

"No, stay," Simon said. "I didn't mean to butt in."

"You didn't. I hear chores calling my name, though, so I'll take off."

When she was gone, I moved over. Simon slid down beside me. I gave him plenty of room, but he stayed close, not touching but almost, and I gazed at the gap between us, that scant inch of bare sofa, staring at it because, well, I didn't know what else to do, to say.

The horror in the crawl space had been hovering over my head, cushioned by the shock and confusion and stress of dealing with the doctors and Aunt Lauren, but now that cushion began to sag, the weight sliding down, the memories returning.

"I feel awful," he said. "About Tori. I knew she was mad about seeing us together, so I tried setting her straight, but I think 1 only made it worse."

"It's not your fault. She has problems."

A small, sharp laugh. "Yeah, that's one way of putting it." After a minute, he glanced over at me. "You okay?"

I nodded.

He leaned over, his shoulder rubbing mine, breath warm against my ear. "If it was me, I wouldn't be okay. I'd have been scared out of my mind."

I dipped my head, and a strand of my hair fell forward. He reached over with his free hand, as if to brush it back, then stopped. He cleared his throat, but didn't say anything.

"It was pretty interesting," I said after a moment.

"I bet. The kind of thing that's really cool in the movies, but in real life . . ." Our eyes met. "Not so much, huh?"

I nodded. "Not so much."

He twisted, backing into the corner of the couch. "So, what's your favorite zombie movie?"

I sputtered a laugh and as it bubbled up, the weight eased. I felt my thoughts shift, settling into a place where I could make some sense of them. I'd been trying to forget what happened, to push past it, be strong, be tough, be like Derek. Raising the dead? No biggie. Send 'em back, bury the bodies, next problem please.

But I couldn't do it. I kept seeing them, smelling them, feeling their touch. My gut kept seizing up with remembered horror, then thinking about what I'd done to them, their horror. The best way for me to handle it right now was to get some distance. Don't forget it —just shift it aside with safe images of celluloid.

So we talked about zombie movies, debating and discussing the merits of films that, according to the ratings board, neither of us should have seen.

"It has the best special effects," Simon said, "hands down."

"Sure, if you make enough things blow up, you can hide plot holes big enough to drive a truck through."

"Plot? It's a zombie movie."

He was now sprawled on the floor, having moved there to demonstrate a particularly lame zombie "death scene." I lay on the couch, looking down at him.

"Let me guess," he said. "You're going to write the world's first art-house zombie movie to premiere at Sundown."

"Sundance. And, no. If I ever have to direct any art-house film?" I shuddered. "Shoot me now."

He grinned and sat up. "I'll second that. No art flicks for me. Not that I'm going to ever write or direct any film. So which is it you want to do? Write or direct?"

"Both if I can. Screenwriting's where the story's at, but if you want to see that story come to life, you've got to direct, because in Hollywood, the director is king. Screenwriters? Barely even register on the radar."

"So the director is at the top of the heap."

"No, that's the studio. The director is king. The studio is God. And they just want something they can sell, something that'll fit their four little quadrants."

"Quadrants?"

"The four main demographic groups. Guys and girls, divided by young and old. Hit all four, and you've got a blockbuster . . . and a very happy studio. That is not, however, going to happen with a zombie movie, however cool it is."

He flipped onto his stomach. "How do you know all this?"

"I might be stuck in Buffalo, but I'm wired. I subscribe to Variety, Creative Screenwriting, a whack of industry loops, bookmark the blogs . . . If I want to be in this business, I have to know this business. The sooner the better."

"Oh, man. I don't even know what I want to be yet."

"I can hire you to do all my fog effects."

He laughed, then looked behind me. "Hey, bro. Get enough fresh air?"

"I wanted to talk to you." Derek swung his glare to include me. "Both of you."

"Then pull up a chair. The current topic of conversation is zombie movies." Simon glanced at me. "Are we still on zombie movies?"

"I think so."

"Zombie movies?" Derek said, slowly, as if he'd misheard. His face darkened and he lowered his voice. "Have you two forgotten what happened today?"

"Nope. That's why we're talking about it." Simon tossed a grin my way. "Kinda."

Derek lowered his voice another notch. "Chloe is in danger. Serious danger. And you're lounging around, yapping about zombie movies?"

"Lounging? Yapping? Good word choices. Very evocative. You making a point? I know perfectly well what happened and what it could mean for Chloe. But the sky isn't going to fall if we don't discuss it this very minute, Chicken Little." He stretched. "Right now, I think we could all use some time to just chill."

"Chill? You do a lot of that, don't you?" Derek walked over to Simon. "In fact, that's pretty much all you do."

I stood. "I —I'd better see if Rae needs help. With her chores."

Simon sat. "Hold up. We're almost done here." He turned to Derek. "Right?"

"Sure. Go ahead. Take it easy. I'm sure Dad will walk in that door any minute and rescue us. And if he's in trouble? If he needs help? Well, too bad, 'cause that would require effort and you're too busy . . . chilling."

Simon sprang to his feet. Derek stood his ground. They faced off for a moment, then Simon nudged me toward the door.

"Let's go."

When I hesitated, he mouthed "please." I nodded and we left.