I’m not thinking. I’m pleading.
“What about Morty and Jane?” I ramble, naming her parents, who live in rural Ohio. “You call them every Sunday. You die, and they’ll be destroyed.”
“Here.” Marco shoves something into my hands.
Her purse.
Red leather straps.
A zipper.
“Thanks,” I say, but he’s already looking away, body coiled like he’s ready to bolt.
I dig through the purse with shaking hands. Wallet. Keys. Lip balm. Receipts.
Please.
Please.
I will burn down churches. I will make deals with gods I don’t believe in.
My fingers close around plastic.
The EpiPen.
I don’t hesitate.
Cap off. Needle in. I jab it into the smooth skin of her thigh and press hard.
Hannah doesn’t move.
I rub the injection site like I can force the medicine to hurry. To spread through her bloodstream and fix whatever is broken inside of her.
“Mr. Wiggles needs you,” I choke out. “He thinks you’re his mom. He won’t survive without you.”
Nothing.
“What about me?” I whisper, voice breaking. “How am I supposed to live without you? You remind me the world can be good, full of color. That people can be kind.”
A long pause…
Then—
Hannah gasps.
Her eyes snap open.
She rolls toward me and vomits all over my limited-edition sneakers.
I laugh. A broken, hysterical sound.
And pull her into my arms like I might never let go again.
“Damian?” Her voice is muffled against my shoulder.
“Yeah?”
“Sorry about your shoes.”
