The guest room at Anah's house was a cage.
It was a small, cold, clean room that smelled of lavender and mothballs. The bed was too soft. The wallpaper was a pattern of faded, pink roses. Ruth had been locked in. Anah had literally turned a key in the old, iron lock.
"For your protection, child," the old woman's low, gravelly voice had come from the hallway. "The walls of this house are... strong. You are safer in."
Ruth had not slept. She had sat on the edge of the too-soft bed, her arms wrapped around her knees, and she had shaken.
She had replayed it. Over, and over, and over.
Dickson's sneer. His hand, shoving her. The CRACK.
Bruce. His smoking hand. The smell of ozone. The pile of bodies.
She was a normal girl. She worried about algebra and college applications and whether her mom's casserole was going to be edible. Her world was made of rules she understood. Gravity. Physics. Cause and effect.
And Bruce... Bruce had broken them. He had shattered her world.
Her boyfriend... her best friend since she was six... the quiet, sad, "space boy" she had always, always protected...
...was a bomb.
She was terrified. A part of her, a deep, primal, animal part, was screaming at her: Run. He is not human. He is not safe. Run.
But...
A small, stubborn, furious part of her... the part that was Ruth... kept whispering something else.
Dickson pushed you.
He was... he was... he was protecting me.
He had hurt them. He had almost killed them. But... they had started it.
This was the thought that was tearing her apart. Her terror of what he was, was at war with her fierce, innate sense of justice. Was he a monster? Or was he a protector?
And... what was the difference?
Anah had unlocked the door at 7 AM. She had handed Ruth a mug of the same, bitter tea. "Drink," she'd commanded. "It will calm you."
Ruth had taken a sip, and her face had contorted. "It's... awful."
"It's necessary," Anah had said, her gaze dark. "I... I spoke with the hospital. A... a friend... a nurse. The boys... they are... alive."
Ruth had felt a wave of relief so profound her knees had buckled. "Oh, God. Alive."
"Broken," Anah had continued, her voice cold. "But alive. They are telling everyone... a lie. They are telling the police they were... hit. By a... a car. A hit-and-run. They are... ashamed... to say what they really saw."
"But... Kraven..."
"The detective? He... knows... it is a lie. He is... hunting." Anah had then looked at Ruth, her eyes sharp. "Bruce... he... he lost control... because of you."
The accusation had hit Ruth like a slap. "Me?"
"You are his... anchor," Anah had said, her voice hard. "And you are his trigger. That power... it is... tied... to his heart. To... protect... you... he... he... blew the world up."
Anah had told her. About the cup. How Bruce had done it again. "He... he is... curious," Anah had whispered, and the word had sounded like a curse. "He... he... he liked it."
Anah had finally let her go, with one, final warning.
"He is not... safe, child. He is not... Bruce... anymore. The thing is... awake. You... you stay away. You... you must stay away. For his sake. And for yours."
Ruth had run all the way home, her mind a screaming, chaotic mess. She had locked herself in her bedroom, ignoring her parents' confused questions.
And she had looked at her phone.
Twelve missed texts from Bruce.
Ruth, are you okay?
Ruth, PLEASE talk to me.
I'm at your house. Ruth?
Ruth, I'm waiting outside.
She had looked out her window.
And her heart had broken.
He was there. Standing on the sidewalk, a "yard away" that felt like a different universe. The sky, which had been threatening all day, had finally opened up. A cold, miserable, November rain was lashing down, plastering his dark hair to his skull. He was just... standing there. A pathetic, rain-soaked, lonely figure.
He was not a bomb. He was not a monster.
He was just... Bruce.
This was the boy who had carried her books when she'd sprained her ankle. The boy who sat with her, in total silence, when her dog died. The boy who... who...
...had hurled four people into a car.
She couldn't. She just... couldn't.
She turned from the window.
"Ruth, please," a new text lit up her screen. "I'm... I'm scared."
The text... it broke her. She couldn't leave him out there. She couldn't.
She ran downstairs, ignoring her mother's call, and wrenched open the front door.
He was standing on the lawn, his arms at his sides, his shoulders slumped. He looked... drowned. The rain was running off his nose and his chin. He saw her, and his face, which had been a mask of pure, blank misery, filled with a desperate, terrible hope.
"Ruth..." he said, taking a step toward her.
"Stay there," she said, her voice sharp. She couldn't let him get close. She couldn't. She stepped out onto the porch, the cold, wet air hitting her. She wrapped her arms around herself. "Just... stay right there, Bruce."
He stopped. The hope on his face died.
"I... I just..." he stammered, his teeth chattering, whether from cold or fear, she couldn't tell. "I... I needed... to see... to see if you... were okay."
"I'm not okay!" she snapped, and her voice was a high, thin, reedy thing. "I'm not okay, Bruce! I... I... I watched you... I watched you do that! And... and... I... I ran! I... I feel... I feel sick."
"Me too," he whispered. "Ruth, please. I... I... I didn't mean to. I... I can't... I can't explain it."
"That's the problem!" she cried, taking a step back, her hand on the doorknob. "That's always the problem! 'I can't explain it!' 'It just happened!' But... but this... this wasn't you! This... this was... something else!"
"It was me!" he said, and his voice was desperate, pleading. "It was, Ruth! He... he... he pushed you! I... I... I just... I wanted him to stop!"
"And you made him stop!" she yelled, the rain drumming on the porch roof, a frantic rhythm to their argument. "Is that it, Bruce? Is... is that the new rule? Someone... someone shoves me... and you... you disintegrate them? Is that... is that the price? What... what happens... what happens if... if I... make you really angry?"
There it was. The real fear. The one that had been eating her alive. The one Anah had stoked.
His face... it crumbled. It was as if she had physically struck him.
"No," he whispered, his voice broken. "No, Ruth... never. I... I would never... you... I..."
"Anah... she told me," Ruth said, her voice a low, trembling accusation. "She... she told me... about the cup. You... you... you did it again. Last night. She... she said... you... you liked it."
He flinched. The lie... it was so obvious. He couldn't lie. Not to her.
"No," he said, but his voice was weak. "I... I... I was... curious. I... I was... scared. I... I just... I... I had to... know... if it was... if it was me."
"And was it?" she whispered, her eyes wide, tears mixing with the rain on her face. "Was it, Bruce?"
He looked at her. His rain-soaked, miserable, monster boy.
"Yes," he whispered. The truth. The terrible, final, unforgivable truth. "It... it was me."
She broke. She let out a small, strangled sob, and she backed away, her hand fumbling for the doorknob.
"I... I can't," she stammered. "I... I... I can't, Bruce. I... I look at you... and... and... I... I see... I see them... flying. I... I... I hear... I hear the CRACK."
"Ruth, please!" he begged, taking a step toward the porch. "Don't... don't leave me! You're... you're all... you're all I have!"
"I... I just... I need... I need time!" she cried. "I... I... I need to think! I... I need... I need my world... to make sense again! And... and... and you... you don't make sense!"
She turned, wrenched the door open, and stumbled inside.
"Ruth!"
She slammed the door. The click of the lock was as loud, as final, as a gunshot.
Bruce stood, alone, in the driving, cold, November rain. He had lost her. His anchor. His trigger.
He was alone. And he was... dangerous.