Lottie
I vaguely remembered the drive to Walker's house, drifting in and out of consciousness as the world tilted and swayed around me. His large hand kept checking my forehead, his voice a distant rumble of concern that I couldn't quite make out. Mr. Snuggles was clutched against my chest, my one constant in a shifting world.
When we arrived, strong arms lifted me from the seat. I tried to protest—I could walk, I wasn't completely helpless—but my body betrayed me, going limp against his chest as he carried me inside.
"Put her here," a familiar voice instructed. Dr. Atkins. I blinked, trying to focus on his face as Walker laid me gently on the couch.
"She’s barely conscious," Walker was saying, his voice tight with worry. "And she's almost out of insulin."
Cool, professional hands checked my pulse, my temperature. Dr. Atkins' face swam into focus above me, his expression concerned but calm.
"Lottie, can you hear me?" he asked.
I managed a weak nod.
"I need to check your blood sugar. Is that okay?"
Another nod. I was too exhausted to care about privacy now. He took my glucose meter from my purse, pricking my finger with practiced efficiency. I didn't even flinch at the small pain—it was nothing compared to the fatigue weighing down my limbs.
The meter beeped. Dr. Atkins frowned at the reading.
"275," he said to Walker. "Too high. How long have you been feeling this way, Lottie?"
"On and off," I mumbled. "Few days."
Dr. Atkins was already preparing an insulin injection. I turned my face away, burying it against Mr. Snuggles' fur. I hated needles, hated them with a passion that went beyond rational fear, but I knew I needed this one.
"Small pinch," Dr. Atkins warned before administering the shot. I bit my lip to keep from crying out, even though it wasn’t that bad.
After that, things moved quickly. Dr. Atkins started an IV to rehydrate me, explaining that my blood sugar fluctuations had left me severely dehydrated. Walker hovered nearby, his face tight with an emotion I couldn't name—guilt, maybe, or concern.
"I want you to get some rest," Dr. Atkins said. "When you wake up, we'll talk about a better management plan."
I wanted to protest—I didn't need a "management plan," I was managing just fine—but I was exhausted. The last thing I saw was Walker's face, his dark eyes watching me with an intensity that should have been frightening but somehow wasn't.
Walker
I stood in the doorway, watching Dr. Atkins check Lottie's vitals as she fell asleep. Her face looked even younger, the worry lines smoothed away, though the bruises still stood out starkly against her pale skin. Mr. Snuggles remained clutched in her arms, his worn fur pressed against her cheek.
"She's stable now," Dr. Atkins said, removing his stethoscope and turning to face me. "Let's talk in the kitchen."
I followed him, reluctant to leave Lottie even for a moment. The guilt weighing on my shoulders had only grown heavier since discovering the truth about her condition. I'd completely misread the situation, jumping to conclusions based on my own biases and experiences rather than trusting her.
"Coffee?" I offered, more out of habit than anything else.
Dr. Atkins nodded, settling into a chair at my kitchen table while I went through the familiar motions of brewing a pot. The routine task gave my hands something to do while my mind raced.
"How bad is it?" I asked finally, setting a mug in front of him and taking the seat opposite.
He sighed, removing his glasses to rub the bridge of his nose. "Worse than she's letting on. Her blood sugar has been wildly unstable—the readings from her meter show dangerous highs and lows over the past week. She's severely dehydrated, malnourished, and her insulin regime is completely inadequate."
"But she has insulin," I said. "And a meter. She's monitoring it."
Dr. Atkins gave me a look that made me feel like I was missing something obvious. "Walker, managing diabetes isn't just about having insulin. It's about having the right amount, administered correctly, with proper nutrition and monitoring. She's barelyscraping by with the absolute minimum. Did she have any other drugs? Metformin for example?”
I shook my head. “What’s—”
“Helps process the insulin," he added. “She’s on a once-daily basal insulin dose, like a background dose, so at some point it must have been managed properly.”
