He’s kneeling beside Henry, holding his hand. “It’s going to be okay, bud,” he repeats, his voice shaking. “It’s going to be okay.”
I kneel on the floor. Michael watches as I pull my EpiPen out of my bag.
“What’s that?”
“It’s an EpiPen, for allergic reactions. I think he’s experiencing anaphylaxis.” I raise the pen and glance at Michael.
“Wait!”
“It’s okay.” I put a hand on his arm. “I know about this—I’m allergic to bee stings. You have to trust me.”
He hesitates, then nods.
I put the pen against Henry’s thigh and press the button. “It’s okay, Henry, it’s okay,” I say, holding the pen against his leg. Michael and I stare wordlessly at each other, not daring to breathe.
I release the pen and we sit still, watching Henry, waiting for something to happen. It feels like an eternity, but gradually his breathing becomes less labored and the redness in his face fades.
My lungs deflate with relief and I sag, waiting for my stampeding heart to slow.
Michael’s hand is clasped tightly around Henry’s, his mouth a tight line. “You okay, bud?” he asks, his eyes searching Henry’s face.
Henry blinks, a little dazed.
There’s a buzz at the door and Michael jumps up, letting the paramedics in. I step back and hover in the kitchen while they check over Henry. Then Michael scoops him up in his arms like he’s a tiny child, and carries him downstairs to the ambulance.
“Alex,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads out the door.
I grab my bag and trail out after him. Agnes is on the landing in a dressing gown, her brow knitted in concern. I try to explain what happened but the words aren’t coming out right. My whole body is vibrating with adrenalin.
“Alex!” Michael calls again and I glance at the stairs.
“I’ll lock up Michael’s,” Agnes says. “You go with them.”
I clamber down the stairs and out onto the street. Henry is already in the ambulance and Michael goes to climb in with him, but a paramedic stops him.
“You can’t ride with us.”
“What?!” Michael looks shocked. “He’s just a kid. I need to be with him.”
“Sorry, sir. We can’t have people riding back here. We’ll meet you at the Mount Sinai Beth Israel emergency room.” He pulls the doors shut before Michael can say anything, and the ambulance peels away from the curb.
Michael turns to me, white-faced and shaking, and for a second I think he’s going to cry. Shit.
“Michael, it’s okay.” I grab his hand and drag him along the street. “I’ll find you a cab.” Our quiet street opens out onto the much busier Hudson Street, and I scan the road desperately for a cab. I’ve never actuallyhaileda cab before—it intimidates the shit out of me—but I’ll be damned if that’s going to stop me now. One sails past with its light on and I throw up my hand, yelling, “Taxi!”
It screeches to a stop a few feet ahead of us and I yank Michael towards it, opening the door and pushing him in. I go to close the door but Michael grabs my hand.
“Please come.”
I slide into the backseat without hesitating. “Of course.”
The taxi pulls away and I turn to Michael. He’s gripping the seat and staring at me, breathing hard, his pale face twisted with worry. I reach out and pull him into my arms, holding him close as we bump along towards the hospital.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, pressing a kiss to his head. “He’ll be okay.”
* * *
I sitin the corner of Henry’s room, watching Michael by the bed. He’s clasping Henry’s hand, his head bowed. By the time we got to the hospital and located Henry he was pretty much back to normal, but they want to keep him here to do some allergy tests and observe him overnight. We’ve been here for two hours already and Michael hasn’t left Henry’s side.
