She’s burning up. I can feel the heat roll off her.
“I don’t feel so good…” She trails off, swaying in her chair.
Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind, getting louder by the second.
Something is wrong. It’s in the scarlet flush of her skin. The labored way she’s breathing. How she keeps clearing her throat. Hacking into her fist.
Hannah’s in danger, I know it, but why? How?
“What you need to do,” Hannah tells Marco, stubborn even now, with her voice wavering, “is remember this feeling and not do it again.”
Marco’s phone buzzes again. He glances at it and goes pale. He stands so abruptly that the table pushes out with a screech.
For the second time tonight, the restaurant turns to look at him.
His eyes are wild and rolling. “I—I’ve gotta go. Get out of here.” Maybe there’s some drop of decency left in him because Marco pauses, looks me dead in the eye, and says, “You gotta go too.” His eyes flick to Hannah. “Take her. Leavenow.”
I believe him.
I turn to tell Hannah it’s time to go.
Before the words leave my mouth, Hannah slips sideways off her chair, slumping boneless onto the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Her chest heaves as if she can’t get enough air. Her lips are blue at the edges.
A waiter rushes over, yelling, “Miss! Miss! Are you okay?”
I scoop her up, her weight terrifyingly light, her breathing barely there at all.
One look at her face, and the final piece slams into place.
“Are there peanuts in that salad?” I bark at the waiter.
He pales, stammers, “Y—yes. It’s our Thai salad. Peanut vinaigrette.”
I don’t answer.
I shove past Marco and lay Hannah on the bench seat behind the table, shaking her harder than I mean to.
“Hannah,” I say. “Did you bring your EpiPen?”
Her lashes flutter.
Then nothing.
She’s completely unconscious.
I swear, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“What’s wrong with her?” Marco asks distantly, like he’s underwater.
“Peanuts,” I snap. “She’s allergic. Anaphylaxis.”
Where’s her fucking purse?
I can’t see it. Can’t remember if she even brought it in.
Her chest barely moves. Her skin is pale. Too pale.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Hannah Johnson,” I whisper, voice shaking. “Don’t you dare.”
