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9-1-1?
I close my eyes and breathe as deeply as I can, although it isn’t very deep at all. When I open them, the room spins a little. But my attention snags on the pile of mail on the table. Most are opened and left, and although it never has before, my curiosity tugs at me.
Ignoring my symptoms, I slide the mail out of their envelopes.
Overdue bill.
Overdue bill.
Overdue bill.
Final warning, some of them say, in large red letters.
Water, electricity, gas. The mortgage, the internet. We don’t have a fancy television with all the channels. We don’t really have anything extra, now that I think about it.
And then I find the medical bills from the heart surgery.
I don’t know what all these numbers mean or why the figure is so high.
I needed the surgery or I was going to die. And now they’re charging… so much money.
Headlights swing across the front of the house. I scramble to put everything back the way it was, neat and orderly, and hurry up the stairs. My heart pounds like it’s about to quit on me by the time I reach my bedroom, and I close the door and sink to the floor.
I will myself to calm down. To breathe normally, to slow my pulse.
Panic will escalate the problem of my heart.
But tonight, panic just seems to be it for me.
The thought of burdening my parents with my panic, when they’re already dealing with enough, nearly suffocates me. I blindly reach for my cell phone, a gift from my parents last year, and dial Knox’s number.
He answers on the first ring.
“I can’t calm down,” I wheeze.
“Sunny? What’s going on?”
“Panic—”
“Okay, okay.” There’s rustling. “I see your mom’s car in the driveway. Are you in your room? Do you want me to get her?”
I choke out a sob. “I can’t talk to them. Not about—” They would just assure me that it wasn’t my fault, that they’re doing everything they can, that things will be fine. When I know the opposite will be true.
He swears. “Okay, hang on.”
He doesn’t hang up, but he stops talking. I grip the phone hard and focus on his ragged breathing, his muttered swears, and less than five minutes later, he’s shoving open my bedroom window and climbing through.
I drop the phone.
“Sunny,” he whispers, crawling to me. He cups my cheeks with both his hands. They’re cool and wet from being outside, from climbing the tree beyond my window. “What’s wrong?”
I just shake my head and dive into his arms. Never mind that we’re strictly just friends, that we’ve been friends since I kicked his ass in a slap shot competition when we were eight and ten. After the pushing-in-the-mud incident, of course.
Because no great hockey player would just lie down and take that.
“We can’t afford the surgery,” I finally admit.
“The one you just had?”
