I should help him. The thought arrives clinical, automatic. Apply pressure. Call 911. I know these steps the way I know my own readings, written into the muscle memory of five years of other people's emergencies.
But my legs won't move.
Blood is coming through his fingers, dark and steady. His face has gone the color of old paper and his breathing has changed to the short, shallow pattern I've heard before. In the SUV with Christina. In the sedan with Nick.
The blood is almost black, mixing with bile. My thoughts are fractures pieces of information I’m pulling from parts of my brain I haven’t used for a long time.
Liver.
Ten minutes.
"Call someone," he says. His voice is thin. "Sadie. Call someone." His fingers are slipping over each other as he tries to stop the bleeding.
I slide down to the floor. My vision blurs with blood from where he banged my head against the wall, then begins to go black at the edges.
I need to call 911. I look at where my purse is, where my phone will be tucked away safely in the back pocket of the lining.I could crawl to it, I think, only every part of me feels too heavy.
My vision has tunneled to a narrow column of light that contains Jason's face and his hands and the blood spreading across his shirt. The glucose tab isn't holding. I can feel myself slipping again, the slow fade, and I know that if I pass out now and nobody knows I'm low, I could seize.
Jason's breathing changes. His hands slide down towards the blood that’s pooled around him. So much blood. His chin drops to his chest. One more breath, and then it stops.
The room is quiet except for the drip of the faucet.
I don’t feel anything as I slip into my own darkness.
