Dust to Dust Read Online Free Page A

is worse.
    â€œI see,” he says. “Are you still seeing a cloudy world filled with other souls?”
    I nod, cringing inwardly at the description that I’d given him of the Prism, this world that lives and breathes in my head. It was more than that, though—it was glistening and calm and quiet, really wonderful at times. And if that place were the only thing that plagued my mind, I could deal with it. What I haven’t told my father is that it’s the person, the one who echoes inside me somehow. . . .
    Thatcher . When my mind lets his name fully form, it’s like I feel him pressing against me somehow, holding me close to himand keeping me safe. I feel a flush of warmth so intense I have to sit down.
    As I ease myself into a hard-backed chair, my father looks at me, concerned.
    â€œYou have to give yourself time to heal,” he says, his voice soft and strong all at once. And I know I’m not going to win this fight.
    â€œI feel stronger,” I say, still trying. “I do.”
    â€œThere may be a lot of pain if you go off the pills.”
    â€œI know,” I say. “I’m tough.”
    â€œYes, you are,” he says. “But I’m afraid the answer is still no. We need to work on the doctors’ time line—not yours.”
    I frown at him as I offer a stiff nod. It’s useless to argue with a dad who gives orders for a living. Still, I need to show him I’m capable, so I shove the pills into my pocket and stand up to clear his plate.
    â€œLeave it. Carla’s coming later,” says my father, who hasn’t put away a dish in . . . well, ever, as far as I know.
    â€œI can manage,” I tell him with a grin. “Let Carla do the harder stuff—like laundry.”
    â€œYou’re getting better day by day, Callie,” Dad says, not trying to stop me from moving around for once. He unfolds the newspaper at the same time that he meets my gaze. “Don’t think I don’t notice.”
    I put the dishes in the sink and raise my eyebrows at him expectantly.
    â€œBut you still need the medication,” he says, turning to the front page. “Just a little longer.”
    I sigh and load the dishwasher, bending over carefully andassessing my physical state. My legs are pale and a little anemic-looking, marked with lots of small scars and one big one. I wore pants for a week or so, but then Carson convinced me that my scars are badges of honor, “and pretty badass, too.”
    My arms are starting to feel sturdy again—I’ve worked with weights in physical therapy, and my final appointment is later today.
    While I’m definitely still weaker than usual, and these small prickles of pain do hit at unexpected times, I think I’m doing really well for someone who was lying flat on her back for almost two months.
    I shake the pill bottle and pour myself a glass of water, the one I’m supposed to use to wash down my next dose right about now. Dad looks up at me, and I open the bottle slowly. Then I mime sticking a pill under my tongue and swallowing it, like a dutiful daughter.
    His smile makes me feel guilty as I drop the pill into the drain and flush it with the remaining water in my glass. My father isn’t the only headstrong McPhee in this house.
    I walk outside onto the porch. The book I was reading yesterday still rests on the yellow-and-white striped pillows in the swing.
    I’ve been reading a lot since I’ve been home, partly to avoid going online. The local newspapers have all run stories about my miraculous awakening, despite the fact that I refuse to give them interviews about my accident. Um, no thanks. Mostly they’ve quoted doctors who didn’t treat me talking about comas in general, and a couple of pastors have shared stories of what it might be like to be between life and death. I’ve read a few, but none of theirdescriptions have sounded right to me.
    Standing