Amy Foster - The Rift Coda

Harper Voyager

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Amy S. Foster 2018

Cover illustration © Larry Rostant

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Amy S. Foster asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008190415

Ebook Edition © August 2018 ISBN: 9780008190408

Version: 2018-09-18

For Vaughn, my warrior prince, who showed Ryn what was worth fighting for.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Also by Amy S. Foster

About the Publisher

“Stop scratching,” my mother commands tersely. Her fingers grip the steering wheel tightly and instead of the radio that is usually playing in the car, there is only silence. Even at seven years old I can tell that she is annoyed, but mostly, she is worried. I stare down at my slender, bony wrists. Even though it is October, I am wearing only a tank top and shorts. I cannot bear the weight of actual fabric on my skin, and even this little amount is torture. I grit my teeth. I can feel my face flush and a sheen of sweat starts to form on my forehead. I want to do as my mom says, but my skin is on fire.

I need to scratch.

I stare at my legs, two skinny toothpicks. They, like the rest of my body, are covered in red, angry welts. I have had this rash for three days. Seventy-two hours. During that time, I have slept for maybe ten of them, and my parents have survived on even less. No one knows what this is. Not my pediatrician and not the doctors at Doernbecker Hospital. Nothing has helped. I’ve had three shots of different medicines—exactly three more than I like. They put some kind of lotion and then a cream on the rash. I screamed in agony and threw up because it hurt so bad. So far, everything has just made it worse. I am trying not to cry. I have cried so much these last few days that my throat hurts and my eyes sting in the corners where the tears come out. I feel like the pictures I’ve seen of the deserts in Africa, empty except for miles and miles of sand that go on forever. That’s how I feel on the inside: like a thousand pounds of sand.

On the outside, all I want to do is scratch.

One of the doctors from the hospital has told us to go to another doctor in North Portland. A special doctor. This doctor only knows about skin and now my mom and I are driving there in the quiet car where I only hear my own heartbeat and my mother’s occasional muttering of swear words under her breath because of the traffic.

When we get to the address, I see that it is a normal office building, white and gray. This place doesn’t look all that special. In fact, it looks pretty shabby compared to the hospital and my own pediatrician’s fun and fancy office that even has a fish tank. We park the car near the entry and climb out of our seats. I am slow and deliberate.

“Come on, Ryn,” my mom says, a little calmer now that we’ve arrived. She reaches out and then pulls her hand back. If no one touches me, the rash is only itchy. If someone tries to do something else with it, even brush up against it, the rash gets angry and hurts me. Like it’s mad at someone else touching me. My mom opens the door and we walk up a flight of rickety stairs and end up in a hallway. She is looking for the name of the doctor on one of the doors. When she finds it, she opens it swiftly and we move inside. There is a small waiting room and a lady sitting at a desk behind thick glass. This is the same kind of thing that I have seen at our bank. The people who give out the money sit behind a clear wall like this. Maybe this doctor really is special. My mom does not seem to notice this. She is giving the lady our name. She is talking faster than normal. I hear the lady say through the tiny holes in the wall that our visit is covered by Doernbecker Hospital. My mother doesn’t understand.

“This is free?” she asks. Her accent is thicker now, the way it usually gets when she’s excited. She is Swedish. I speak Swedish, too. Why is my mom arguing about paying? Who cares? Let me in there behind the thick wall where the special medicine is so I can stop feeling like this!

“Don’t I have to fill out some forms or something?”

I sigh and look at a particularly large welt on my right hand.

“The hospital sent everything over. Let’s just get Ryn in to see the doctor right away,” the woman explains calmly. “Poor thing, she really looks bad.”

“Yes,” Mom snips, “of course she does. It’s—it’s just so unusual to not have to deal with paperwork.” I know this tone. This is the tone that makes me go to my room on my own without being told to.

“Well, it seems like your daughter has a very unusual rash,” the lady says while smiling at me. She is trying to be friendly, but I don’t like her smile. It’s too big. I hear a buzzing sound and a door opens. The lady ushers us inside past her desk and into an exam room. I do not want to sit. Sitting hurts. I stand in the middle of the room.