Mindwalker by AJ Steiger Page B

party.”
    The tension eases out of his shoulders. “Thanks.” He smiles, just a little, and lifts one hand in a wave. “See you there.”
    I watch him walk away. His words spin through my head.
You feel so far away.
There’s a funny feeling in my stomach, and I wonder why.
    I shake off the thoughts and walk toward my car. Steven’s waiting for me in the Underwater Café. Or is he?
    In my head, I see him lying motionless and pale on a bed,his eyes open and empty, glazed over in death. A chill races through me, penetrating to the marrow of my bones.
    No.
Even if he does have a Somnazol, he wouldn’t have taken it. Not before our meeting.
    Steven will be there. He will.

When I walk into the café and see Steven sitting in the booth, a wave of relief washes over me, so strong that, for a moment, I feel faint. He’s wearing a long black leather coat with a high collar and far more buckles and straps than seem strictly necessary. “Hey, Doc,” he says.
    I think about pointing out that I’m not technically a doctor, but I don’t bother. I suppose, given our respective roles, the title’s not inaccurate. “Hello, Steven.” I sit.
    I want to ask him if he really has a Somnazol, but I choke down the question. I need to be cautious. Asking could come across as confrontational, which could push him away. Besides, I’d have to admit I’d been looking through his file, and I feel a strange reluctance to tell him that. “I didn’t see you at school today,” I say instead. “Is everything all right?”
    â€œDidn’t feel like going.” He shrugs. “Never liked school. Anything interesting happen?”
    â€œThere was a raid. Someone found a threatening note onthe wall, and the police swarmed in and scanned everyone. They took someone away for treatment.”
    â€œTypical day, then.”
    A small chuckle escapes me, though it sounds a little strangled. “I guess so.” It occurs to me that—if the rumors are true—Steven has almost certainly been in that boy’s place. He’s been the one dragged away by police, driven off to a treatment facility against his will.
    â€œSo, you going to order something or what?” he asks.
    I glance at the touch screen menu on the table. I didn’t have lunch, but my appetite has been conspicuously absent since the incident at school. I order a plate of calamari and a chai tea, anyway. Steven doesn’t order anything. When the plate arrives, I pick at the contents without much enthusiasm. The fishy smell nauseates me.
    Steven wipes his sleeve across his mouth, staring intently at my dinner.
    I push it toward him. “Help yourself.”
    He grabs a fork and starts shoveling calamari into his mouth. When he’s done, he drinks the sauce from its dish like soup. I realize my mouth is hanging open and snap it shut. “When’s the last time you ate?”
    â€œUm. Yesterday morning, I think.”
    â€œYou must be starving. Why don’t you order something?”
    He doesn’t answer. I look at his gaunt face, the hollows in his cheeks. If he has no family, what does he do for money? It’s very difficult for someone with a collar to find work. There are government assistance programs, but the money isn’t enough to live on. I think about my freezer, brimming with frozen carrots and broccoli, and the mountains of boxed pasta andcereal in my pantry. Greta is always stocking the kitchen with more than I can possibly eat. Whatever happens, I decide, he’s going home tonight with bags of food.
    He runs a finger around the inside of the dish, collecting the last traces of spicy orange sauce, and sucks the finger clean. A small burp escapes him. “Scuse me.”
    An awkward silence hangs between us. I say, “Listen.”
    In the same moment, he says, “Look.”
    We both fall silent again.
    â€œYou first,” I say.
    He rubs