Chapter
Eight
Fox
I glance down at the gold band on my finger. I’ve been waiting for the guilt to come, and it hasn’t. Bear said I should’ve taken it off months ago. But I wasn’t ready yet. Today feels different. It’s time to try again. The ring struggles over my knuckle, and it comes off with a long tug. It’s so small in my palm. My heart clenches and I can’t breathe, but the pain doesn’t last as long as it did in the past.
My finger feels weird as I take the subway to work, but once I get to my desk, it’s all but forgotten—except every time I look down and see my naked finger.
I’m through three meetings and updating the numbers for The Four Families legit business when I stretch and check my email.
Important update about your medication.
We regret to inform you that we will no longer be carrying your medication as of October 1st. Please reach out to your doctor to make arrangements.
I blink a few times. This can’t be real. No. It has to be a mistake.
I log onto my insurance website, my heart pounding and ringing in my ears. The same notification pops up. The chatbot repeats the message over and over: regrettably, we were unable to reach an agreement with the pharmaceutical company.
Even Reddit forums explode with outraged patients.
My fingers shake as I call Dr. Hanversford. I have his personal number, and he picks up on the third ring. I’m not even done explaining the bullshit the insurance is pulling when he sighs.
“I knew this might be coming. We talked about this at the last appointment—surgery is a great option for you.”
No. No. I’m going to fucking die because the one medication that actually works won’t be covered.
“How much?” I’m able to squeak out. “Meds—out of pocket?”
The ringing in my ears makes it hard to hear, but I think he said, “Ten thousand.”
I drop the phone. The room closes in. The air feels like fire. I’m vaguely aware someone calls my name, but I need to get out of here.
I’m going to die.
The world starts to darken at the edges of my vision. No—I need to calm down or I might trigger an event.
I try taking deep breaths, but the best I can manage are short gasps that don’t do anything.
Calm the fuck down.
Shit. I’m so close to six months … so fucking close.
Doesn’t matter—I’m going to die anyway. I push open a door and I’m hit with a million beams of light. Shit, this is so much worse. Where the fuck am I?
I can’t breathe and all the signs are coming, I'm seconds away from disaster.
“Hey, look for five things that you can see.” The voice cuts through my pain and panic.
Two hands grab my arms. “Say five things now.”
“There’s a yellow fabric cushion.” It’s the first thing I see. What’s it on? “A metal outdoor chair.” I swallow. What else? “Astroturf.” I think I know where I am. I turn my head to confirm. There’s the square of concrete. “Trash can.” And next to it, “Soda machine.”
The voice says, “Great job. Can you take four little breaths for me?”
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Cough. Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.
“Let's keep going. Can you find three things you can smell?”
