Gunther: You still alive? You started off with a brilliant bit but fell radio silent.The Looking Glassneeds more than a one-and-done.
Shit.
Gunther: You owe us nine more.
I got distracted.
No, I let Callaghan Entay distract me. And now what am I supposed to do? I’ve got some video footage, but I doubt anything is scoopable. I need to find out something no one else knows.
The panic that had just started to ebb comes back with a vengeance. It’s too much, all at once. My PTSD. My feelings for Cal. The real possibility that I could lose this chance at a job.
I cannot fail again.
I cannot let this slip through my fingers.
I cannot let Callaghan Entay distract me from what I am supposed to have.
My phone buzzes again, but this time it’s Cal.
Callaghan: I hate to ask this, but if you really are getting me ibuprofen, would you mind picking up some KT tape? I can’t tape my own shoulder, but now that you know, maybe you could help me out?
Gunther: We’re anxiously awaiting your next submission.
Before I know it, I’m checking out of Duane Reade with not only extra strength painkillers but a portable TENS unit and a roll of KT tape. I look at the bottle in my hand. I haven’t purchased this stuff in twelve years. Sometimes I forget what I went through, and sometimes the whole experience comes rushing back, causing me to relive the trauma and fear as if it were happening again.
Guess which this moment is?
The boxes have spilled wide open, flooding my brain with images I’d rather forget.
Waking up with a breathing tube and on dialysis, strapped to a bed with more tubes coming out of me than I ever imagined possible was an absolute nightmare. And this stupid bottle of ibuprofen brings it all rushing back to me, hitting me with full force.
Gunther texts again.
I’ve got to send him something. What? I don’t know. All I can think about is the pain I used to have. The bouts of insomnia that still plague me from time to time. Not to mention the constant fear that my remaining kidney will fail.
I have to focus so I don’t lie down and curl into a fetal position here on the streets of Manhattan. I have to dosomethingto get this job. I need to make all my struggles worthwhile. I need something to show for my life.
Think, Hannah, think.
My brain is empty. I could not name a sports statistic if you paid me a million dollars. Tears form in my eyes, and I swipe them away, the bag in my hand hitting my cheek. The corner of the ibuprofen box stabs me. A bottle of pills I can never take.
Panic is replaced by red rage.
I open up my camera and start a video.
“Word on the street”—I pan around so you can tell I’m walking—“is that Boston Buzzards goalkeeper Callaghan Entay is injured. This is not public knowledge, but once it gets out, will it affect his standing on the US Men’s National Team?”
I jump when my phone rings with a FaceTime from Cal. I close the video and answer, immediately filled with guilt and remorse that I even thought about reporting that story.
What the hell was I thinking?
I could never send that to Gunther. I can’t believe I even let it cross my mind.
As soon as we finish our call, I’ll delete it and think of something else. There has to be another way.
