Much as I suddenly wanted to.
Chapter four
Lottie
I stumbled
into my apartment, fumbling with the lock as the world tilted sideways. Mr. Snuggles dangled from my trembling fingers as I finally got the door open and practically fell inside. The shaking was worse now—not just my hands but my whole body, tremors running through me like electric currents.
I knew these symptoms. I'd been fighting them since I woke, trying to hide them from Walker.
"Just need to check," I whispered to myself, dropping my keys twice before managing to set them on the wobbly table by the door.
My studio apartment was just one room plus a tiny bathroom. The kitchen was barely a kitchen—just a mini fridge, a hot plate,and a sink with a dripping faucet. But it was mine. My safe place, even if it wasn't actually very safe.
I lurched toward my bed, where my glucose monitor sat in its little case on the nightstand. My fingers felt thick and clumsy as I tried to open it. When I finally got the case open, I fumbled with the lancet, pricking my finger and smearing blood across the test strip.
The monitor beeped, and I squinted at the number: 42 mg/dL.
Too low. Dangerously low.
"No, no, no," I whispered, panic rising in my chest.
I stumbled to the mini fridge, yanking open the door. Mostly empty juice containers, a half-eaten yogurt that was probably expired, and nothing else. I'd been planning to go grocery shopping after my shift today.
The shelf above the hot plate held a few cans of soup and a box of saltines. I grabbed the crackers with shaking hands, tearing open the package and stuffing three into my mouth at once. The dry crackers stuck in my throat, but I forced myself to chew and swallow.
Not fast enough. Glucose tablets would be better, but I'd used the last ones two days ago and hadn't been able to afford more yet.
I fumbled through my purse, searching for any candy or sugar packets I might have stashed there. My vision was starting to blur around the edges, dark spots dancing in front of my eyes.
There—a squished packet of sugar from the coffee shop where I'd treated myself last week. I tore it open, dumping the contents directly into my mouth. The sweetness was cloying, but I didn't care.
I sank onto the edge of my mattress, waiting for the sugar to take effect. My heart raced in my chest and sweat beaded on my forehead despite the chill in the apartment. I'd let myself get too low. If I'd still been with Walker when I crashed completely...
The thought made me shudder. He already thought I was helpless. Watching me have a hypoglycemic episode would have confirmed every assumption he'd made about my inability to take care of myself.
After fifteen minutes, I checked my blood sugar again: 68 mg/dL. Better, but still too low. I forced myself to eat more crackers, counting them out carefully. Six more. That would be enough carbs to bring me up without sending me too high.
My insulin. I needed to check if I had enough left.
I crawled to the bathroom, pulling open the medicine cabinet. The insulin vial was nearly empty—maybe two days' worth left if I was careful. The prescription was ready at the pharmacy, but I wouldn't get paid until Friday.
Three more days. I just had to make it three more days.
My vision had stopped swimming, but exhaustion weighed on me like a lead blanket. I dragged myself back to bed, collapsing onto the thin mattress. Mr. Snuggles had fallen to the floor, and I reached down to retrieve him, wincing as my bruised muscles protested.
"We're okay," I whispered to him, smoothing his matted fur. "We'll be okay."
But would we? Walker had been right about one thing—this apartment wasn't safe. The lock on my door barely worked, the building was filled with questionable characters, and I'd been harassed more times than I could count just walking to the bus stop.
But I couldn't afford to move. The rent here took nearly two-thirds of my paycheck from Sunny's. The rest went to food, insulin, and bus fare. There was never anything left over.
And Walker...I closed my eyes, remembering the frustration in his eyes when I'd refused his help. He'd been kind—kinder than anyone had been to me in a long time. He'd made me feel safe, protected. The way he'd stroked my hair until I fell asleep...
Tears welled up, spilling over onto my cheeks. I'd pushed him away because I was ashamed. Ashamed of my poverty, ashamed of my illness, ashamed of needing help at all.
My uncle's voice echoed in my head: "Nobody wants a sick kid. Nobody wants that burden."
