Page 88 of 72 Hours of You

“You’re still doing it, you recognize that, right, Sydney?”

He counts to three and he takes the photo.

“Aw, come on,” he says. “You weren’t even smiling.”

“Yes I was.”

“You were smirking. I want to see teeth this time.”

I roll my eyes but then he squeezes my side, and I let out an uncontrolled squeal-laugh like a twelve-year-old, and he takes the picture.

He’s still holding the phone above our heads, the two of us reflected in the small rectangular screen.

“One more,” Peter says. “One, two—”

A burst of pink lights up the room.

72:00:00

Fifty

THERE’S A CLOCK ABOVE OUR HEADS.

There’s a clock.

Above our heads.

The world is frozen. Ice. There is no air. There is no time. There is nothing. The world is ending. It’s over.

Please let it be me.

I tilt my head, slightly. The clock doesn’t move. Peter is still smiling for the camera. He turns to look at me.

11:59:58.

It’s been two seconds.

The clock is his.

Peter.

It’s Peter.

Fifty-One

“PETER,” I SAY, MY VOICE CALM and measured, even though my chest is screaming, clawing, tearing apart. “What was it you wanted to tell me?” This isn’t real. This isn’t real.

Peter closes the phone and sits up. I feel myself sitting up too, though I’m not really sure who is making my body move.

He takes my hand. “Sydney, I know you know something’s been going on with me. And I’m sorry I haven’t told you sooner.” He takes a breath. “My dad’s sick.”

I …

“Your dad? I don’t understand.” His words aren’t making sense. Maybe my brain isn’t working. Maybe nothing is real anymore.

“He got diagnosed with Huntington’s a while ago. But it’s gotten really bad in the last year. That’s why we moved here. He wanted to be somewhere quieter. My mom quit to help take care of him. Before he …” He rubs his thumb over my hand and lets out a sigh. “Before he dies.”

Keep your eyes on his face. Not the clock. His face.