Okay, I admit to myself as I cast my gaze around the store,not alone. But she doesn’t know the other people in here like she knows me. She knows them, but they’re not friends. They haven’t spent dozens of shifts together over the years, teasing each other over TV preferences—she likes competitive reality, I like soccer—and playing Scrabble and Scattergories whenever it’s slow.
And she wouldn’t have someone here who’sreallypaying attention to her.
“It should have been MINE!” Daniel shouts abruptly.
Everyone in the store jolts, myself included.
“What?” Greta asks quietly. “What should have?”
Daniel turns towards her, so his back is partially to me. We’re all seated in a semicircle in front of the checkout counter, with Greta at one end and Willow and me at the other. Though I feelbad for Greta, I’m relieved Daniel’s attention has shifted to her. It gives me more leeway to talk to Willow, for one. And it gives me another opening to inspect the shelves behind me, hoping to find some sort of weapon that I missed earlier.
Except it’s a gift shop filled with innocuous things like the frilly scarves my mom likes to wear and stuffed snowmen with button eyes and knit caps. And though I’m in pretty good shape—I hit the gym at least four times a week—I’m not sure a stuffed snowman or a scarf is going to help.
“The store!” Daniel yells. “It should have gone to me! And the house! And the car! And the—” He stops. “The vintage records! Those, too!”
“But I had those before we got married,” Greta starts. But she quickly amends her very reasonable explanation by adding, “You can have them. All of them. Just let us go.”
“NO! It’s too late!”
From midway across the semicircle, Mrs. Everts moans, “He’s going to kill us.”
Willow shudders again. Then she sways.
Though I know I should avoid sudden moves, my hand darts out to steady her.
“Willow,” I whisper urgently, “What’s going on?”
She sets her shoulders and lifts her chin. “I’m fine,” she murmurs.
“No, you’re not.” I hold on to her arm an extra second before letting her go. “And don’t tell me it’s because you’re scared.”
Her lips thin. Several long seconds drag by. Then she admits quietly, “It’s my insulin patch. It ran out.”
My stomach clenches.
Shit.
Willow’s a diabetic. Type 1. It’s well-controlled, and most times, unless she says something about it, I forget she has diabetes at all.
But I know the dangers of going without insulin for too long. And depending on how long ago her patch ran out, Willow could be in serious trouble.
“How long ago?” I whisper.
She glances at Daniel before replying, “Four hours ago.”
Shit.
Being a pharmacist, I know about insulin patches. And I know that for someone like Willow, with her type of diabetes, being without insulin for that long can be dangerous.
“How are you feeling?” As I wait for her response, I curse myself for not thinking of it sooner. I should have considered her diabetes as soon as I noticed Willow shaking. But I assumed it was fear and not a symptom of high blood sugar.
“Shaky,” she admits. “Chilled. Thirsty. Tired.”
With each symptom she reels off, my worry grows deeper.
Willow takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. Then she flashes me a wan smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”
Will she, though?
