Read Some Kind of Magic for Free Online Page B

seemed to evoke such emotions in people.
    He'd never fit anywhere. That was his problem. The ol' square peg thing.
    “How high can you fly with those wings?” he asked her. He really wanted to know. He'd always thought wings were supposed to be made of feathers, but hers were evergreen branches.
    Weird.
    But nice.
    It reminded him of something. “I've got a funny st-story to tell you. One I think y-y-you'll really get a kick out of—”
    She pulled at his arm.
    Dead weight.
    “Get up. Please get up.”
    “I met this guy once. Can't remember his name. Now that I think about it, I never knew it. For the sake of the story, let's just call him Fred, okay? Fred wanted to get a tattoo that said ‘Hell's Angels.' But the tattoo guy hadn't made it past third grade so the tattoo ended up saying ‘Hell's Angles'. Isn't that funny? Just funny as hell?”
    “I'm wetting my pants, it's so funny. Now come on. Get up.”
    Next thing he knew, she was pulling him to his feet with her angel superpowers, until once more he was kind of standing, or rather slumping against the side of the Jeep. She stuck something on his head, some kind of soft cap. She jammed his arms into a coat, pulling it tight in front, zipping the zipper like he was some little kid.
    He kinda liked that.
    “You’re going to walk.”
    It was a command.
    She grabbed the front of his jacket with both hands, pulling him close, glaring at him with those Mediterranean eyes of hers. “Do you hear me?”
    He smiled a smile that felt kind of goofy, even to himself. “I like you.”
    She blinked, her expression making him think of an owl. He’d surprised her. Startled her, actually.
    Then she seemed to come back around, turn into her old drill sergeant self again. “Do you understand?” she asked.
    He nodded, not understanding at all, having no idea what he’d just agreed to. All he knew was that he liked her, his sweet Siberia. His Max. To the max. Maxed out. “You’re maxing me out...”
    He laughed at that—a sound that once again triggered that alarmed and surprised and puzzled and worried expression on her face.
    His sweet Siberia. It made it sound as if he’d known her quite a while. He liked that, too.
    He walked.
    For her, he walked.
    He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t feel his feet. He couldn’t feel his face. But there was suddenly this warm place in his chest, this little tiny glow. An ember. A promise.
    Do you want to die?
    Yesterday, his answer would have been that he really didn't give a shit. Today, today his response was slightly more positive.
    Today he didn't know.
    ~0~
    Claire had never worked so hard in her life. Trevor, or Dylan, or whatever the hell his name was, was down more than he was up. Sometimes he would walk with one arm draped across her shoulder, his weight often pressing her to her knees. When that happened, she would brace her legs under her and straighten, bringing him with her.
    Sometimes she had to throw his weight off her in order to get up. She didn’t like doing that, because then she had to go through getting him upright all over again. Sometimes she couldn't get him upright so she would grab him under his armpits and, walking backward, she would drag him across the snow. It was backbreaking, and she could only tug in short bursts. It must not have been much fun for either, because after a time, he would roll to his hands and knees and crawl until he felt ready to try to stand once more.
    She bullied him, and cheered him on, and shouted until her throat hurt, not knowing if her words sank in or not. There were a couple of times when she thought about leaving him, when she considered going the rest of the way by herself. Once home, she could rig up something, some kind of board that could be pulled across the snow, but she worried that she might not be able to find him again, or that he might wander away while she was gone. Or she might come back and find him dead and frozen. So she kept on cheering and pulling,