Benson yanks the painting away from me and tosses it on the ground behind him before wrapping his hands around my upper arms. I almost collapse against him but manage to wring the last vestiges of strength from my weary muscles in time to catch myself.

“What happened?”

“I—I don’t know. I touched the painting and it was … like I knew what happened to Quinn. Or, what didn’t happen, I guess.” Black dots swim in front of my eyes and I’m afraid I’m about to faint. I feel like I’ve just run a marathon on an empty stomach.

“I can’t stay here any longer,” I say, my hands covering my eyes.

“No problem. We can come back another day.”

I nod mutely—not wanting to come back ever—and Benson reaches for the painting and tosses it back into the crate, pushing it into the darkness. He gathers up several of the other objects and packs them into a leather bag he brought along. I lean against the crumbly dirt wall and avert my eyes so I don’t have to see the painting again. Even the thought of it makes me a little queasy, like I’m riding a bad roller coaster.

It’s not supposed to be this way. The thought comes unbidden to my mind.

The journal starts to slide off my lap and I slap both hands down on top of it.

“It’s just me,” Benson says.

“I want to take this.”

“Whatever you say. As long as it’s not going to mess you up like the picture.”

“It won’t,” I insist. I have no reason to assume that, but somehow, I know it’s true. “I need it.”

The words come out of my mouth, but they don’t sound like mine.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

“I don’t think I can drive,” I say when we finally catch sight of Reese’s car half an hour later through the swirling gusts of sharp, icy winds. The shiny dots are back in front of my eyes as I try halfheartedly to help clean a thin layer of snow off the windshield. “Can you gemefood?” My words are slurring and I have to concentrate on standing upright as I dig the keys out of my pocket. I’m too tired to even worry very hard about the people following us, although, after the car incident, I ought to be doubly on edge.

Especially because I’m completely useless right now. But given our freezing journey through the woods and how he had to half carry me and his messenger bag filled with stuff from the dugout, I can’t imagine Benson’s feeling too spry either.

After helping me get in and buckle my seat belt, Benson asks, “Do you need to throw up? You look sick.”

I shake my head and the motion makes me nauseous. “Need food. Starving.”

“I think you should magic yourself something.”

“Won’t help,” I argue, leaning my forehead against the window and closing my eyes. “Disappear in five minutes. Even the stuff I already ate.”

“Yeah, but if you keep making more for the ten minutes that it’ll take me to get you some real food, you’ll keep replenishing the food that disappears. It’s got to at least help a little,” Benson says, his eyes pleading with me not to fight him on this.

It takes a few seconds for the words to register and I realize it’s a rather brilliant idea. I fight it, though. The thought of actually ingesting something I made with my freaky magic makes me nauseous. More nauseous.

I can last; there’s gotta be some fast food here. French fries. I can stay conscious long enough for some good, salty fries. The picture in my head is so vivid I have to resist the urge to lick my lips.

It’s only when I feel the heat starting to seep through my jeans that I look down and see a carton of perfect french fries sitting in my lap. My hands grab for them even as my mind screams that they aren’t real, that I shouldn’t touch them. But Benson’s right—I have to eat something now. I almost burn my tongue pushing them into my mouth and try to remember to chew. In less than two minutes the carton is gone.

“Make more,” Benson says, and he sounds very serious now as he bumps onto the paved road and heads back toward Camden.

I don’t fight it this time, and soon I’m making my way through another carton of fries. They warm me up and replenish my blood sugar faster than I would have thought possible. When the second carton is gone, I take a few deep breaths before making another one. The first carton will be disintegrating soon and I realize I have no choice anymore: I have to keep eating to prevent my blood sugar from crashing again. Probably harder this time.

I make another batch of french fries and conjure up a big cup of hot chocolate to go with them. Steadily, but not at the frantic pace I started out at, I munch and sip as I start to feel normal again.

“Hamburgers or tacos?” Benson asks dubiously as he looks between two non-branded fast-food joints that look questionable at best. At least they’re open.

“Oh, hamburgers, please. Some kind of double with fries—real ones—and a Coke. Not the diet kind.” I stuff another handful of fries into my mouth as it starts to water at the thought of a hamburger.

There’s no drive-through and Benson turns to look at me sternly with his hand on the door handle. “Keep eating. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Hurry,” I say with a smile. I’m conning my body and I don’t know how long I can keep it up before it rebels.

A handful of fries stops midway to my mouth when I realize that the last few days have been just like when I woke up from the coma. I ate and slept almost all day long. They told me it was because my brain needed immense amounts of resources to heal. It makes me wonder just what the hell my brain is doing now, what that picture did that my body needs this much help recovering from.