Rosario liked to be right about things. She liked it the way she liked striking through items on a list or crushing an exam, with the fierce flare of satisfaction that came from setting everything in its proper order. She liked to be right, and she really, really didn't want to be wrong on the whole not-crazy hypothesis, so she wasn't the slightest bit prepared for the wave of queasiness that swelled in her gut when Johnny said the words you girls are right.
They were right, but she didn't know what it meant to be right, except that she – or the world – was wrong about a hell of a lot of everything else, and that thought was maybe even more terrifying than a clean and simple no, sorry, turns out you actually are crazy.
Where did they even start to unpack all of that?
A little different itched and prickled at her thoughts, an anxious niggle she didn't want to touch yet couldn't look away from. But then there was I've died a few times and the same stock, bumping up against her memory of the woman in the forest, pulsing pink organs knitting back together, a pool of tarry black sick and the smell of death, and what the fuck, what the fuck?
Rosario gripped the edge of the table as though she could use it to steady her reeling thoughts. Fundamentals. Start with the fundamentals. "What does that mean, you're Little John? Little John is a storybook character, so are faeries, they're not supposed to actually exist. How do you exist?"