Page 27 of Asystole

“Depends,” I say. “Is there any room for me in your car, or am I going to have to move a bunch of empty fast-food wrappers and dirty clothes in order to find my seat?”

“Damn, Matthews,” Jackson balks like he hasn’t ever given me a reason to suspect those things are real possibilities.

I’m too tired to play nicely. I spent half the night on the phone with Kendra, trying to convince her that I still love her. Kendra’s always been solid, and I don’t know where the distrust and insecurity were coming from other than the distance wreaking havoc on her as well. I lost precious sleep because of the argument, and now my patience is non-existent today.

“Sorry,” I bite. “I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I woke up around two and heard your voice through the bathroom. It didn’t sound good.”

“Yeah. Sorry if I woke you.”

My tone must give away the fact that there’s trouble in paradise, and Sarah capitalizes.

“Is everything okay?”

At this point, I’m so tired that spots are dancing in my vision. There’s no way I can determine if she’s being genuine or just taking advantage of an opportunity, but it doesn’t matter. My filter is gone.

“I have no clue,” I answer honestly.

Her hand lands on my biceps a second later.

“Oh, Chase. I’m so sorry,” she coos.

“Yeah, you sound real sorry, Prescott,” Jackson says, calling Sarah by her last name, the same as he does to me.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Sarah fires back as we make our way down the hall.

Needing space from these two—and time to think—I shrug away from my co-residents and duck into the elevator, telling them I’ll see them tonight.

With no destination in mind, I hit the button for the sixth floor.

Marcy’s door is cracked, but I hear the TV. I enter the room to find Helen in Marcy’s bed, holding her sleeping daughter.

She gives me a tired smile that makes my own fatigue pale in comparison. How fucking dare I think my exhaustion is extreme? I don’t know shit.

“Dr. Matthews,” Helen says in a quiet greeting before looking down at the little girl in her arms. “She had a long day. They had to up her chemo, and it really wiped her out,” she explains as I move to the edge of the bed and run a hand over Marcy’s bandana.

“She’s gonna beat this, Helen.”

I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it with all my heart.

Helen’s eyes water as she rubs Marcy’s back.

“I know,” she says in a strangled whisper.

Changing the subject, I ask, “Christmas is next week. Would it be okay if I brought something by for her?”

“It would make her whole day.” A tear falls from Helen’s eye as she continues. “I don’t have much for her this year. The treatments aren’t getting any cheaper, and I make just enough to make me ineligible for financial assistance from the hospital. I know Marcy doesn’t expect anything, but she’s eleven, you know? I want my baby to have the Christmas of her dreams.”

Fucking tear ducts.

I swipe at my eyes and clear my throat before my unjustified fatigue makes me break down in this room and wake this sweet sleeping girl.

Before thinking it through, knowing my call schedule, or checking in with my family, I open my mouth.

“Leave it to me. If you don’t mind sharing Marcy’s Christmas Eve with me, I’ll make sure it’s special.”

“Dr. Matthews, you really don’t⁠—”