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Cordelya’s blood would.

The thought comes quick and unbidden, shocking me to my core.

“I need to make an appointment,” I grumble while the espresso machine powers on. I catch sight of my reflection on the chrome side of the hissing machine.

My skin has progressed to a sickly, wan pallor. Circles that would make a raccoon jealous now rim my sunken eyes. I look like a low-budget cryptkeeper.

For the last few weeks, it’s become increasingly harder to ingest enough of my blood smoothie concoctions. Every time I look in the mirror, the image that stares back veers more and more into creature feature territory. It’s a miracle Cordelya hasn’t run away in fear.

Not that she should be running on that ankle.

I glance at the clock. Six thirty-three a.m. Cordelya mentioned an afternoon shift when I dropped her off last night. I should let her rest.

But as a medical professional, I have a duty to check on my patient.

After coffee.

And a goddamn smoothie. Just thinking about it makes me shudder.

Once my espresso is brewed, I walk out to the front porch and take a seat on the swing. As I sip my morning brew, I use my phone to message my medical team. The three doctors have been overseeing my care since I was a kid. If anyone can unravel my sudden intolerance to my decades-long regimen, it’s them.

I finish my coffee just as the sun's first rays illuminate the sky.

With great reluctance, I head back inside and prepare smoothie number one for the day.

With my energy lagging and the blood not absorbing the way it should, I’ve been attempting to triple down on smoothie consumption.

Not that it’s working.

It takes monumental effort not to immediately throw up whatever I drink. Even if I am successful, I feel horrid all day long. Today’s mango, orange, pineapple, and A-positive mix does not go down easily. I slump against the sink, breathing hard as I fight off the waves of nausea.

Sweat slides down my spine as cold chills sweep through me.

Once the worst subsides, I brew a second espresso to kill the lingering taste of yet another disgusting smoothie, and head back to the porch.

I pull up Cordelya’s contact info on my phone and open a new text message.

Me: Morning

Me: This is Augustus

I stare at the phone screen, willing the three dots of response to appear.

Several minutes pass with nothing. I nurse my coffee, wondering if I made a mistake asking Cordelya for her number last night.

For medical purposes, of course.

Just when I’m about to give up hope, my phone chimes.

I manage to spill half of my espresso on myself in my excitement.

Cordelya: Good morning, Auggie

“Auggie,” I exhale.

She’d used the nickname a few times last night. I had initially thought it was a fluke.

But then she’d said it again. And now in a text. Warmth floods my chest as a smile forms on my lips.