Ding Dong, The Witch Is Dead
Eve
Ascreamrentthroughthe air, shrill and panicked. Everyone in the breakroom froze, glancing at each other before being set in motion by another scream. My chair screeched across the floor, and several of us hurried into the hallway, searching for the source of the screaming.
“Up here! Help!” We looked up onto the second-floor balcony overlooking the atrium. Scarlette’s eyes were wide, and she balanced on the tips of her toes like she was ready to take off running.
“What’s wrong?” I started toward the stairs.
“It’s Cheryl. Sh—she’s unconscious.”
Mutters rose behind me. I ran up the steps, followed by Blake, Warren, and Michelle.
“Blake, call 9-1-1,” I commanded, focusing on Scarlette. Tears tracked down her face, and her hands shook as I grasped them.
“Where is she?” Michelle asked.
“In the practice studio,” Scarlette answered as we followed her down the hall to the small rehearsal room.
Cheryl was lying face down on the carpet. Michelle—who had been a nurse before making it on Broadway—took charge, rolling her over and revealing a face so swollen it was hard to recognize.
“Jesus Christ,” Blake muttered.
Michelle immediately started compressions. “Look in her bag. See if you can find her Epi-pen.”
I let go of Scarlette to search the contents of Cheryl’s bag, which had been strewn over the floor.
“I looked everywhere for her Epi-pen, but it wasn't in her bag,” Scarlette said, panic sharpening her tone.
“What happened?” our stage manager, Nick, asked from the hallway. “They said someone was unconscious.” He entered the room, freezing at the sight of Cheryl on the floor.
“I... I left to go to the bathroom. When I c-came b-back sh-she was...” Scarlette broke down into sobs.
Blake was still on the phone with the dispatcher, relaying information about Cheryl’s condition.
“How are we coming with that Epi-pen, Eve?” Michelle asked, a nervous lilt toher voice.
“It’s not here,” I said, digging through every pocket of her bag with shaky fingers.
“It should be there,” Nick said. “She always carried one with her.”
Warren dropped onto the floor next to me to search through the items that had spilled out.
It wasn’t here. We were wasting precious time.
“Does anyone else carry one?” I asked, my voice tight with fear.
“Derek keeps one in his locker,” Warren mumbled. “He’s always forgetting to put it in his pocket at home.”
“Where is he?”Michelle asked.
“Hell if I know. He took off after he was done eating,” he said, avoiding her gaze. “It’s locker 23. He never locks the damn thing.”
“I’ll get it,” Nick said, running from the room.
Michelle was still doing compressions, but her face wasn’t as determined as it had been when she’d first come into the room. The hope she’d held when she’d started was dwindling.
I glanced at Scarlette, her face ashen, fresh tears falling. I rose from the floor and wrapped an arm around her, trying to calm her down as tears soaked into my shirt.
