Page 468 of End Game

“No. Just irritating.”

Dex already has his phone out. “Mine says 238.”

“I know what it says.”

“Just confirming.”

“I appreciate the redundancy.”

His expression shifts enough that I can see the actual concern underneath the bullshit. “Seriously. You're okay?”

“Yes.”

I pull my insulin controller closer and look at the recommended correction. “I'm sick. My numbers are being stupid. This is not exactly uncharted territory.”

Ronan's gaze lifts from his laptop. “And the Pod?”

“Was working fine this morning.”

That answer satisfies me more than saying “it's fine” would.

Because I know better than to fall in love with one explanation.

Griffin has drilled that into me almost as hard as every diabetes educator I've ever had: don't blame every high on the pump, but don't keep blaming everything else if insulin stops behaving like insulin.

This morning, it behaved.

I corrected.

I came down.

Good enough for now.

The Pod itself is on the upper curve of my right buttock, which is not exactly a convenient place for casual visual inspection unless I want to get naked in the kitchen and ask for volunteers.

It hasn't hurt.

No alarms.

No leaking insulin smell.

Nothing that makes me suspicious.

So I take the correction and move on.

Dex's phone chirps again.

He grabs it. “Two-forty-one.”

I give him a flat look. “You know you don't have to narrate my glucose in real time.”

“I am providing color commentary.”

“You're making me regret giving all of you ‘Follow’ access.”

Micah lifts his phone off the counter. “I'm muting mine for an hour.”

“Thank you.”