Zach stirs behind me, voice groggy and thick with sleep.
"Hey, babe... what's... going on?"
"We need to go," I blurt, already sliding off the bed.
That gets his attention. He pushes himself upright, blinking.
"What? Where? What time is it?"
I'm grabbing the hoodie he keeps in his dresser for me, yanking it over my sleep set with clumsy hands. "It's Sam, Zach. I think something's wrong."
The phone keeps ringing. She doesn't pick up.
I try again, panic clawing at my throat.
Zach is fully awake now — no trace of sleep left, just sharp alertness. "Tell me. What's happening?"
"She... she..." My voice breaks, my brain spinning too fast to string thoughts together. "She sent a 9-1-1 message a few minutes ago."
Every drop of color drains from Zach's face — like someone yanked the floor out from under him.
He's out of bed instantly, grabbing sweatpants and a shirt, throwing them on without looking away from me.
"Okay," he says, voice low and steady but his eyes full of fear. "We're going. Now."
I slip into my shoes with trembling hands just as he grabs his keys, and then we're out the door — both of us moving fast, hearts pounding, the hallway blurring as dread settles like ice in my stomach.
Sam needs us.
And something is very, very wrong.
The drive from Zach's place to our dorm normally takes ten minutes.
Tonight, he does it infive.
He's gripping the wheel so hard his knuckles have gone white, jaw locked, eyes flicking between the road and the dashboard like he's trying to will the car to move faster. My heart ishammering the whole time, every second stretching like it's trying to tear itself apart.
"Come on, come on..." Zach mutters under his breath, foot pressing harder on the gas.
Thank God there are no police cars around, because we would've definitely been pulled over otherwise.
The moment we park, we're both sprinting — across the lot, through the front doors, into the elevator. My hands won't stop shaking, and I keep tapping my foot, begging the elevator to move faster, faster,faster.
When the doors finally slide open, we run down the hallway.
I fumble the keys at my door — my fingers won't work, my breath won't settle — but I finally get it open.
We rush inside.
And then we stop.
Because Sam is on the floor.
Curled into a tight fetal position.
One hand clutching her stomach.
Her face twisted in unbearable pain.
