“Antony Costa’s family agreed to an interview,” he says. “I was just looking for the way out...”
He feigns looking around, and I justknowhe’s looking for Jacob’s room. And Antony’s family may have agreed to an interview, but Jacob’s family sure as hell didn’t.
“I can show you the way out,” I say coolly, and walk toward the waiting room without giving him time to argue.
“So, what are you doing here, then?” he says as we walk. “Visiting Nichols?”
There’s absolutely no suspicion in his tone, but my stupid brain goes from zero to panic in half a second. “Costa and Nichols,” I say. “Both of them. Just... offering support to their families, from the F1 drivers.”
“Antony’s family didn’t mention,” he says. “I did ask, if anyone had reached out—”
“I haven’t been there yet,” I say irritably. “I went to Nichols’ room first. I’m headed to Costa’s now.”
“Ah.” He nods. “I see.”
We’ve reached the waiting room. I pull the door open for him expectantly.
“Well, thanks, mate,” the guy says.
I close the door behind him and mutter to myself, “I’m not your mate.”
But now, I think I have no choice but to go visit Antony Costa. What if the reporter comes back and asks his family about it?
I know I’m being paranoid, but I can’t help it. It’s like my default setting nowadays.
The ward clerk gives me his room number, 907, and I drag my feet there. I’m dreading every second of it, but when I nervously slide open the frosted glass door, I find something like a party going on inside. There are cards and balloons and about fifteen people crammed into the room. In the middle of all of it is Antony Costa, sitting up in his hospital bed looking weak but conscious.
“Travis Keeping!” A girl no older than ten squeals my name. “Pedro, look! It’s Travis Keeping!”
An even younger boy spins around and gapes at me. A pretty, middle-aged woman beside him turns toward me.
“Well, hello!” she says brightly. “I recognize you from the TV. You’re that Formula 1 driver!”
“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble. “I was just... passing by. I thought I’d come visit.”
“Hey, man,” Antony says. He looks very surprised to see me—which makes sense, since I’ve spoken to him maybe once in my life—but not unhappy. His voice is hoarse but pleasant, and although he has a few IVs running fluids into him, he looks a hell of a lot healthier than Jacob.
I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say, but it turns out, with Antony’s family, I have to say absolutely nothing. The two kids start talking rapidly about Formula 1, asking me a hundred questions without stopping for breath, Antony’s father offers me some coffee, and his mother squints at me, pronounces me “Too thin!” and sends two of Antony’s cousins running off to the nurse’s station to bring back some of the homemade food they brought in for the staff. Before I know it, I’ve been pushed into a chair with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of Brazilian truffles called brigadeiro.
“You look tired,” Antony’s mother chastises me. “Are you sleeping enough?”
Antony laughs. “Leave him alone, Mom.”
“Nonsense,” she says briskly. She waves her hand at the young girl who squealed my name when I came in. “Quinn, give him some more food.”
“Shouldn’t you be training or something?” Antony asks me, while Quinn eagerly piles more food onto my paper plate.
Probably I should come up with some excuse, but for some reason I can’t lie to him. I think he’s reminding me too much of Jacob. Instead I just shrug and say, “Should be.”
Antony gives me a swift, searching look, but luckily he’s distracted by his grandmother’s arrival. She comes bearing more food and a vase of flowers.
“You can’t have flowers up here, avó, the nurses told you that,” Antony chastises her halfheartedly.
“Ah, you will be downstairs tomorrow,” she says, waving him off.
“He’s being moved out of the ICU,” his mother says proudly, before I even have to ask. Her face sobers for a moment, and she puts a sudden, unexpected hand on my shoulder. “Did you know the boy who passed away? Ellis?”
I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”
