“Or we could start dessert,” Emma countered. She had no desire to be scared by choice.
“Marshmallow?” Daniel asked, passing around the bag.
“Thanks,” Emma said by rote, sticking several on her stick.
“I’ve got everything ready over here,” Margaux said. “When you’re done, let me know, and I’ll assemble.”
“Just graham cracker and marshmallow for me,” Christine said. “I don’t need the sugar but can’t resist a treat after today.”
“It’s not worth the calories without the chocolate,” Margaux said.
Emma smiled. “Mrs. Thomas wasn’t wrong.”
“Her little sayings pop up in my brain all the time,” Christine said. “Okay, fine. Go ahead and give me a real s’more.”
Emma wanted something sweet to chase away the bitter moments of the past few days. From the corner of her gaze, she spotted Margaux carefully lining up the graham crackers and chocolate bars for three. “Aren’t you going to make a s’more?” Emma asked.
“Not in the mood,” Margaux replied. “And…I get what Jennifer must be going through. I wish she had shared with me. I can commiserate. I miss having my own identity. I’m so wrapped up in my husband’s life right now. Where does he end and I begin? I’m not a helpmate. I’m not a companion. I’m just sort of there, smiling for cameras. It’s very…”
“Having only a career isn’t good either,” Emma added. If everyone else was opening up, it felt only right to add her burdens to the fire. “I have dedicated my life to helping vulnerable teens, to saving lives. Because I can’t change what happened.” Or forgive herself for what must have been her inaction. Although she couldn’t piece together those fragmentary memories, she must have missed signs of her sister’s distress. Perhaps her retrograde amnesia shielded her from more pain. “But I think, even with all the pain that has happened this weekend, I’ll be leaving with a reconciliation with the past.”
“That’s a brave thing to admit,” Christine said, approaching Margaux with her marshmallows.
Margaux readied the chocolate on the bottom graham cracker and then using the top portion, slid the first marshmallow off the stick. She handed it to Christine as she took the stick.
Christine took a huge bite, devouring almost half the s’more in one bite, clutched her throat, and dropped to the ground.
Daniel leapt off the log. He managed to catch Christine before she hit the earth, potentially smacking her head against the stones, ringing the fire or the log she had been sitting on.
Christine gasped. Her hands clutching her throat. Angry red welts surfaced on the delicate skin of her neck.
“She’s in anaphylaxis,” he shouted. “Does she have an EpiPen?”
Emma scrambled to the women’s shared tent.
She was gone for seconds that stretched to hours. Holding someone struggling to breath, Daniel’s adrenaline kicked in. Christine stared at him with a primal, visceral look of fear. “Stay with me. Shh. Shh. It’s okay.”
“I’ve got her bag,” Emma shrieked, coming out of the tent with Jennifer’s backpack. “Where is your medicine?”
Christine waved a hand.
“Try the front pocket, quick,” he yelled.
Emma unzipped the backpack, the contents spilling onto the ground. “Got it!” She held the EpiPen aloft in triumph.
Christine dropped a hand off her neck, extending the shaky limb to Emma.
Emma shook her head. “No, I know how to use this.” She readied the medicine and without further ado deployed it on Christine’s upper thigh, through her jeans.
Daniel held on to Christine as the medicine entered her system. Up close, he observed her breath evening out and the red rash abating. Her pulse normalized, too. He didn’t let go.
He’d been trained to help people in emergencies but sadly had more experience deploying Narcan than an EpiPen. After five minutes, he held her stare and waited for her nod. Then he helped her back to sitting on her own and grabbed one of the water bottles they’d packed.
“Thanks,” Christine said, opening the water and gulping greedily. “I can’t believe that happened. I know better than to just eat something. I usually avoid chocolate for the risk of contamination. It’s dark, and I’m tired, and I didn’t double check.”
“None of this is your fault,” Emma said.
He was glad she cut off the self-directed, victim blaming. Living with a severe allergy meant a vigilance few could conceive. “Margaux, let me see the chocolate bars.” He waved a hand.
