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I’m talking, throat grabbing, turning blue-style choking.
“Van!” My scream falls on deaf ears as I spring from the bed and rush to his side on the floor. “What’s happening?” Tucking my hands under his head, I study his face for some kind of answer.
“Bathroom,” he manages to garble out. “I need Epi.”
I don’t know what the hell Epi is, but I rush to the bathroom, throwing open every drawer to search for it. With no luck, I pop my head back into our room.
“What does it look like?”
The sound of his wheezing fills the room, but he manages two whispered words, “Yellow, injector.”
“What? A yellow injector?”
His breathing is shallow as he melts to the floor.
Crap.
A yellow injector… I have to find a yellow injector before he dies in front of me.
Darting back into the bathroom, I toss everything that isn’t yellow or an injector onto the floor. “It’s not here!”
He tries crawling toward me but collapses, his hand reaching out to me. “H-help me up,” he stutters.
Dashing to his side, I try lifting his shoulders, but it’s useless. “We need to call 9-1-1.”
“No.”
“Now is not the time for you to be stubborn. You’re going to die if we don’t.”
His voice is merely a whisper. “Then I’ll die.”
The hell he will. “You have two seconds to tell me where the injector is, or I’m calling an ambulance. I don’t care what you say or do to me.”
Even on the brink of death, he manages to flash me a glare that promises retribution. “Top drawer. Taped to the underside.”
What in the utter fuck?
I sprint back into the bathroom, but not without yelling, “Why is it taped to the underside of the drawer, Van?”
Who does that?
Van, apparently—someone who would rather die than let anyone know he has a severe allergy.
Reaching my hand under the drawer, I find the auto-injector under a slab of tape, exactly where Van said it was. Rushing back to his side, I hold the pen up like some grand prize.
“I’ve got it.”
But I don’t revel in my accomplishment for long because his skin is red and splotchy, and his lips have turned blue.
“Van.” His body is stricken with sweat as I shake him and place the injector in his hand. “I have the medicine.”
His eyes barely open as he struggles to bring in air. “You have to do it,” he murmurs breathlessly. “Stab it into my leg.”
His eyes close again, and I think he’s passed out, but I’m not sure.
Crap, crap, crap.
The device looks bulky and scary, like I’m about to stab him with a knife.
