“Then—”
“We simply don’t have enough evidence, Emery,” Charles says. “And petitioning the courts could take months.”
My jaw clenches. “He doesn’thavemonths, Mr. Marquis.”
Charles swallows. “I’ve said this to my son, and I’ll say it to you. The only thing you can do right now is pray. I’m deeply sorry, Emery, I truly am. But we’re out of options. I’m…”
And we are.
Damon’s heart monitor begins to rapidly beep. Faster and faster and faster. The phone slips from my grasp and shatters on the floor as I stare at Damon, the walls closing in and suffocating me.
No…
Then, as if all the joy, all the laughter, all the goodand holy is sucked out of the world, he flatlines, the harrowing sound ringing in my ears.
“No!” I scream, my heart fracturing into a million shards of longing. “No!” I whip my head at Quin. “No…”
In that split second, it happens. I see it.
A spark. A flame.
And then, as he bolts off his seat, a fucking fire.
I gasp as Quinton leaps past me and springs onto Damon’s bed, straddling his hips. Quin locks his elbows together, and with vicious refusal and vibrant hope, he pumps the heel of his hand into the center of Damon’s chest, into his heart, and I fall in love all over again.
"One, two, three, four..." Quinton mutters to himself.
My knees quiver, and if I weren’t already seated, I’d sink to the goddamn floor.
The doors to Damon’s room swing open and hordes of doctors and nurses pour inside, mounting voices commanding Quinton to stop. He ignores them, his focus unwavering.
"Five, six, seven, eight..." Each compression is a desperate prayer, a plea to the universe. “One, two, three, four…”
My eyes glaze over momentarily, and then they’re in front of me. Javier and Josephine stare at Damon, pale and trembling.
"Sign the forms! Sign the forms or he'll die!" My voice is raw, cracking with despair as I scream at them. “He’s dying! You can’t just stand there and watch him die!”
The longest recorded case of an individual surviving by way of CPR is six hours. They were in the wilderness. No life support. No hospitals.
We’re surrounded by machines.
Technology.
Doctors.
And yet, here we are, in the wild.
THE GREEN GRASS
DAMON
The unobstructed sunbeams down on my face as I leisurely stroll down the idyllic streets of Rockchester Villa. For a gated community, it’s never felt like a prison. Not when I learned to ride my bike and accidentally swerved into a white picket fence. Not when I trapped my first firefly and my mother lectured me on the importance of breathing holes. Not when my parents told us we were to attend a boarding school.
A man in his late sixties waves at me from his front porch. I return the gesture, attempting to place him. He looks familiar. I intently study his aging features, his posture, and the way he smiles at me. I suppose I do know him. He lives next door, after all.
I shift my focus from the man to his pristine lawn. The grass is greener than I remember. Perhaps they’veupdated their sprinkler system. I should look into that. I’ve always enjoyed a lush green landscape.
A jarring beep sounds from my watch, and I lift my wrist, staring at the mechanical winding hands. I frown, brows knitted together. Maybe it wasn’t the watch. Shaking my head, I take a deep breath and turn onto the path toward my house.
