The Secret Sea Read Online Free Page B

showed a white woman, maybe Mom’s age, maybe a little older.
    CAMPBELL, Melinda, MD, PhD , it said.
    And under that:
    Specializing in childhood traumas and disorders. Available by appointment only. Contact Youth Psychiatric Services at …
    There was an e-mail link, as well as a phone number, but Zak had stopped reading.
    She wasn’t just a doctor. She was a psychiatrist. His parents were taking him to a head doctor.
    His parents thought he was crazy.

 
    FOUR
    Dr. Campbell’s office was in the Village, so they had to walk to the F train. It was August-hot, but the temperature between Zak and his parents was frosty. No one spoke except to point out when a light had changed.
    Two blocks before the subway station, Zak steeled himself. He would have to go down into the subway for the first time since the previous day’s vision of flood and death. His parents would be watching him carefully, he knew. He didn’t want to do or say anything that would make them think he was any crazier than they already did.
    It was one thing to suspect himself. It was another thing to have his parents think he was a nut job.
    As they took the first steps down into the subway, Zak forced himself not to look around. Then he wondered if that was strange, so he looked around a little bit—what he hoped was a normal amount.
    Dirty tiled walls. A sign reminding people that rat poison had been dispersed in this station recently. A slew of posters—for movies, books, TV shows, plays, college courses—some of which had been defaced with random mustaches and an assortment of body parts. People milling about, restless in the heat and humidity.
    Down on the tracks, a rat poked its nose at a crumpled Doritos bag, clearly not affected by the poison.
    Nothing strange.
    No flood.
    No voice.
    And then.
    â€”secrecy—
    Zak blinked and composed himself. He would not—he could not—betray any hint of hearing Tommy to his parents.
    Don’t—
    â€”tell—
    No kidding.
    â€œThere’s no reason to be afraid,” Dad said suddenly.
    â€œShe’s just going to talk to you,” Mom added.
    â€œI’m not afraid,” Zak said a little too quickly.
    â€œYou looked a little tense.”
    Silence, Zak realized, was his best defense. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared at the rat, which by now had forced its snout into the Doritos bag and was no doubt scarfing down whatever crumbs remained.
    The F clanked and rattled into place at the station. Zak settled in.
    The train pulled out, swaying that way subway trains did, in that way Zak imagined boats did. He closed his eyes and reached out for the feel of the breeze, the creak of the masts.
    For the voice.
    He couldn’t help himself. Once, he’d scraped his arm on a rough tree in Prospect Park, tearing a patch of skin from his elbow almost up to his shoulder. It hadn’t been that bad—Mom called it a “surface abrasion”—but it had been broad and almost epically tender for a few days. And yet, he’d been unable to keep from running his fingers along his arm’s textured surface, despite admonitions to leave it alone, despite the tickle that crossed the line to pain without warning.
    He sought out the voice for the same reason, for the same unknowable reason. He couldn’t help himself. If it was Tommy …
    The subway moved to and fro, its rhythm somehow liquid. No voice, but he could swear he heard …
    The cry of a gull …
    A gull? What’s a gull? How do I know?
    A bird. A gull was a bird.
    No. That was the squeal of the brakes.
    But it wasn’t. It was a bird. Screaming and squawking as it flapped its way between the masts. The sails cracked in the wind, their snaps like whips.
    â€œYou keep a-skylarkin’,” a voice bellowed, “and I’ll have ye keel-hauled right quick!”
    Not the voice, but a voice that filled him with a familiar dread. He