“The ball is dramatic, Mr. Bromley,” I say, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair. “We are going on an adventure. To the third floor. It has a view. And dry floors.”
We transfer him to the chair. He is heavy. He is dense.
We reach the stairwell.
I push the door open. A wall of heat hits us. It is narrow, concrete, and somehow twenty degrees hotter than the hallway. It smells of wet dust and industrial cleaner.
“Okay,” Luke says, grabbing the front frame of the wheelchair. “I pull, you push. On three.”
We start the climb.
By the first landing, I am sweating. Not a polite, “I’ve beenplaying tennis” glow. I am sweating like a sinner in church. My scrubs are sticking to my back.
“Pivot!” Luke yells as we hit the turn.
“I am pivoting!” I gasp, heaving the chair up. “Do not quoteFriendsat me, Silva. I am not in the mood.”
“He’s slipping!” Luke grunts, his biceps straining under the weight. “Push harder!”
“I am pushing! He has the density of a collapsed star!”
“My chakras!” Mr. Bromley wails, shaking the 8-Ball. “They are misaligned!”
“Your chakras are fine!” I yell back. “My lumbar support, however, is destroyed!”
We hit the second floor landing. My lungs are burning. My legs are shaking.
Luke stops. He wipes sweat from his eyes. He looks down at me.
“York,” he pants. “Switch out. Go find an orderly. I can hold him.”
“No,” I wheeze.
“Don't be a hero. You look like you’re going to pass out.”
“I am not passing out,” I say, gripping the rubber handles until my knuckles turn white. “I am persisting. It is a York trait. We are stubborn. And spiteful.”
“It’s just stairs, Preston. It’s not a character test.”
“Everything is a character test with you!” I snap. “Move your ass, Silva. Unless you want Bromley to roll backward.”
Luke stares at me for a second. A small, begrudging smile touches his lips.
“Okay,” he says. “One more flight. Let’s go.”
We heave him up the last flight. My arms are screaming. I am mentally drafting my resignation letter.
We burst onto the third floor. The air is stagnant, but at least we aren’tclimbing anymore.
We wheel Mr. Bromley into an open room. A nurse takes over, checking his vitals and reassuring him that the Magic 8-Ball is not a licensed meteorologist.
As soon as he’s settled, Luke and I collapse against the wall in the corridor. I slide down until I’m sitting on the floor, head back against the cool plaster. Luke mirrors me, sliding down right next to me.
He looks wrecked. His curls are plastered to his forehead. There’s a smear of grease on his cheek. His chest is heaving, rising and falling in a rhythm that matches mine.
“I think,” I pant, closing my eyes, “that I am going to die.”
“You’re not going to die,” Luke manages, wiping sweat from his eyes. “You just did manual labour. It’s called work, Preston.”
