“It’s the only one you’re going to get from me.” The doctor returned Angelo’s notes to their place and held out his fist. “Take care,mate.”
And then he was gone. Angelo stared after him and shifted on the bed. Inactivity had done wonders for the infection rampaging through his immune system, but his muscles were fucked?—seized up, jittery, and crampy. Brief periods of standing helped. Angelo hauled himself upright and eased his legs over the edge of the bed. It took a moment for his ankles to take his weight and the IV in his arm got tangled, but eventually, he was stable enough to shuffle to thewindow.
He gazed out over the city, the one positive of his corner bed. Without the view, he’d have lost his mind entirely, and the twinkling lights of a city that never slept grounded him now, soothing the scrape of anxiety that plagued him every time he pondered what the hell he was going to do. He had no job, no money, and soon he’d have no home either, at least not one that didn’t involve sharing a retirement flat with hismother.
Fuck that.Angelo had felt pretty close to death over the last few days, but continuing to live with Theresa in any capacity would be a damn sightworse.
An obnoxious buzz pierced the quiet of the near silent ward. Angelo jumped and turned around faster than his healing equilibrium was totally comfortable with. He put a hand to his chest, absorbing the rattle that came with each breath and the thud of his startled heart. It was the middle of the night, and he was surrounded by snoring old men, so why could he hear a buzzingiPhone?
As the thought meandered through Angelo’s mind, his gaze fell on a grubby white cable. He blinked and tracked it to the broken chest of drawers by his bed. Beside the ever-present jug of lukewarm water lay his own battered phone, plugged in and charging.What the...?Angelo stared at it, scrabbling to recall Theresa’s afternoon visit, which was the only logical explanation for the phone’s reappearance in his life. She hadn’t stayed long, but Angelo didn’t blame her for that. He’d spent most of his time in hospital, sleeping, coughing, and throwing up, and in his brief moments of lucidity, he’d had no idea what to say to her.So he’d said nothing. And she’d left but not, apparently, before plugging in his long-abandonedphone.
He shuffled back to his bed and sat down before tentatively reaching for his phone. The cracked screen was alive with the messages Dylan had sent him the day the bailiffs had cleaned out the deli, but there was nothing since. Angelo deleted the messages without reading them and wiped his voicemail. The hurt in Dylan’s eyes that night was all the reminder Angelo needed for just how badly he’d screwedup.
He set the phone down and, worn out by his jaunt to the window, curled up on his bed, wishing he had another pillow to wedge between his knees and some food that didn’t smell like reheated linoleum. That he was hungry was progress, but he still felt like carving his lungs out and flinging them at thewall.
Angelo closed his eyes, but despite the quiet of the ward and the ever-present weight of exhaustion, couldn’t sleep. He stared into the darkness for a while, and then shifted his attention to his dormant phone.Don’t.But he reached for it anyway and searched for a Wi-Fi connection. A café downstairs had an open account. Angelo logged on and opened WhatsApp. A single message buzzed through the shaky Internet connection. It had been sent an hour ago and simply readI’msorry.
It was fromDylan.
Angelo’s heart skipped a thudding beat. He sat up, rubbing his face, willing his mind not to be playing a cruel trick on him. And when he looked again, the message was still there... and Dylan wasonline.
With shaking hands, Angelo attempted to tap out a reply. Nonsense filled the screen, and panic that Dylan would go offline before he typed anything coherent sent him into a coughing fit. Dying inside, he did the only thing he could think of and snapped a picture of the IV in hisarm.
The photo hurtled into the abyss before he could check himself, and a reply from Dylan buzzed back almostinstantly.
D:WTF? Are youok?
Damn it. Angelo wrestled with his treacherous focus and painstakingly composed areply.
A:Pneumonia. Probs MErelated.
D:Shit. Has that happenedbefore?
A:No. Might have had it a while without realisingtho
Dylan didn’t reply straight away. Angelo lay back and squinted at the screen. Perhaps talking would be easier than typing, but then again, even breathing was a ball ache right now. Besides, it was the middle of the night, and despite the cacophony of snoring going on around him, he didn’t want to disturbanyone.
His phone buzzedagain.
D:Are you inQueens?
A:Yup. Shithole.
D:All hospitalsare.
A:Yeah.
D:Are you on the respiratoryward?
A:No. It was full, so they put me on some spilloverward
D:Bluebell?
A:Yeah.
Angelo closed his eyes, willing away the dizziness and accompanying stabbing pain behind his eyes, then forced them open and textedagain.
A:Bluebell A, I think. There’stwo.
