Page 215 of 72 Hours of You

He touches my wrist. “Don’t.”

“But—”

“How much time do I have left?”

“Fifteen minutes and two seconds,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to be in an ambulance.”

“Okay,” I say, pushing his hair back. “Okay.” His glasses are crooked. I readjust the thin gold frames so they lie straight on his nose, and something soft and fragile inside me rips apart.

00:12:14

His phone buzzes and I grab it. “Your … your parents missed the train. They aren’t going to make it for a couple more hours.” Oh god, they aren’t going to make it to him at all.

Peter nods, tries to reach for his phone, but he’s shaking so much. I place it in his hand.

His mom’s voice floats into my mind again. I’m glad he’s got a friend.

He types something, then lets his phone slide out of his hand. He takes a ragged breath, his body shaking. “I know what you’re thinking.”

I’m thinking that this is all my fault. I’m thinking that I’ve killed Peter. I’ve taken the one good thing in my life, the one good thing in this entire disgusting world, and I’ve murdered it.

“This isn’t your fault,” he says.

“How can you say that? Of course it is!”

He reaches up and touches my face. I put my hand over his, keeping his fingers pressed against my cheek. The light is getting brighter over his head. He’s slipping away. “Benjamin Franklin said—”

“Really?” I can’t help but laugh, wiping the snot off my nose with the back of my other sleeve. “You’re going to quote Benjamin Franklin right now?”

“Hell yeah I am. I’ve had a few hours to think about it, you know.” Peter tries to laugh but it turns into a cough. A look of anguish passes over him, and then he makes his face go smooth again. “Franklin said, ‘People die at twenty-five and aren’t buried until they are seventy-five.’ But that’s not me. I’m going to leave soon. But I really lived. I …” His whole body trembles under my fingers, but he takes a shaky breath and looks me in the eyes. “I didn’t waste a single second, Sydney. Seventy-two hours of you is worth an entire lifetime.”

“Peter …” I run my fingers over his mouth. He’s so cold. I lean down and press my warm lips against his. He can barely kiss me back, but I feel him trying to. I still feel his soul in the space between our mouths.

“We’re on the fourth floor,” he says. “It’s not the Empire State Building but we … I think we still get some of those … those micro-nano-seconds.” He takes another breath. “Don’t you think?” He blinks up at the ceiling. “I can feel them.”

I hold his hand, lacing his fingers through mine. “I feel them too.” And I do. I feel every single individual particle of time in the room right now.

He closes his eyes, his chest moving up and down. The minutes, the seconds, everything is going too quickly now.

Sirens scream in the distance. I don’t even know if they’re for us. There are so many tragedies in this city, in this world.

00:04:31

He’s leaving. I want to scream, claw at the air, hold on to the last minutes. But there’s nothing to hold on to.

His eyes flutter open. “Sydney …”

“I’m here,” I say, holding on to his hand. “I’m right here.”

There’s pounding at the door. Wood breaking. Shouting from police officers.

But they’re not here with us, not really. The only thing that exists is him and me. PeterAndSydney.

“Do you believe in reincarnation, Syd?”

Everything is a pink blur. His light is so bright, and my tears are making everything hazy.