“But—”
“You swore.”
I look away. “That was before you were sick.”
“Fuck.”
“I’m afraid you’ll get worse.”
“If anyone finds out I’m here, they’ll kill you.”
I suck in a breath. “What…why would they kill me?”
“Because that’s the protocol. Remember protocols from the library? Familiar with civilian casualties? You’re it. No ambulance. No people. Just me and you.” He lifts two fingers.
I reach for my phone to google what I can do help him, but then remember he took my phone. From the kitchen, I get some water and a wet towel he can use to clean up. Then I leave himalone. I don’t want to die. My daughter needs a mother, even if she’s all grown up now. Doesn’t she?
On Tuesday, I wake up to find out the streets haven’t been cleared out after the riots, and I can’t reach the hair salon. I don’t know when I’ll safety reopen for businesses, but hopefully it will be tomorrow.
On a more positive note, I figured out how I’ll handle this sudden influx of cash. I’ll hide it under the loose floorboard near the closet.
The other problem is the man in the room who is not getting better. If anything, he’s worse. When I visited him this morning, he was fast asleep. During the night, he slept too, but he looked ashen this morning, as if the blood had drained from his body. I had to touch him to make sure he was alive. He felt a little cold, so I pressed my ear against his chest to make sure I heard his heart beating. He was pale and drained of life, and his breathing was shallow.
I’m scared he’ll die, and it’ll all be my fault. I can’t just let him die, no matter the consequences I’ll face when everything unravels and I’m revealed as the driver who hit him.
With that in mind, I withdraw my phone from his pocket. He protests and tries to lift his arm, but doesn’t have the strength to stop me. First, I check my messages and see that he replied to my dad and daughter. A quick “everything is great” message saying I’m resting and watching the news.
My dad said I shouldn’t be going anywhere, which I’m sure the man appreciated.
He left the business contacts unread. I take a few minutes to scope out the news on the internet. I have to stay informed.While the cops searched for Crossbow’s killer, violence spilled onto the streets. People are saying it’s turf wars. They’re saying Selnoa is up for grabs. Massio wasn’t the only criminal around. He was the strongest one, who dictated to the rest. With him gone, the other factions are coming out like cockroaches.
I pocket the phone and chew on my lip, wondering what I can do for this man.
He can’t eat or drink. I’ve thought of calling for the ambulance a hundred times. But he forbade it. I respect his wishes, but decide that if he’s not better in a few hours, he’ll have to see Glenda, who is one of my clients. I call her Glenda because we went to high school together, but most everyone else calls her Dr. Tuden. She’ll come to the house and keep it private.
Chapter 9
Trying not to die
Declan
My head swims, my concussion progressively worsening. I’m pretty sure I could cure this with more rest, but Dina just informed me that she told a client of hers about me. She has no idea what she’s done!
“Damn it, Dina,” I say. I sound weak because Iamweak, despite telling myself I would be strong. I am again weak and small and in this hateful city that I can’t wait to leave behind. Which I will have to do right now, since there’s a doctor coming to the house. Once the doctor figures out my brain is swelling (or whatever is happening to it that’s blurring my vision and making me nauseous), she’ll check me into the hospital. Then everyone who’s seen me will have to die.
I want to live. I want Dina to live. I even want the damn doctor I haven’t met yet to live. My dad’s taken care of. Life is good. Why stop living now, just when everything is going so well?
“I had to tell her,” Dina explains from her spot beside me. “But I promise she’ll only examine you and not call an ambulance.”
I sit up and try to move my ankle. I can’t do that yet because it takes more time to heal a sprain, but after I rested, elevated my leg, and iced the swelling, my ankle isn’t the size of a watermelon anymore. This makes me somewhat mobile. If only I could stay conscious for longer than fifteen minutes.
I’m slipping in and out of consciousness. I can tell because I’m marking the time with my stopwatch.
I slept most of the day today.
Something cold touches my lips. “Please try to drink some water,” she begs.
I sit up with a groan and swallow the bile that travels up my throat from the movement. Somehow, I manage to get up, but I sway on my feet and plop back onto the sofa bed. I’ve never been this sick. I don’t know how I’ll make it two steps out of this room before I collapse. I need to get out of the apartment before the doctor shows up.
