Chapter 44
FORTY-FOUR
MIGUEL
By the time I pull into the parking stall, the sky’s doing that bruise-purple thing it gets right before full dark.
I’m still humming some stupid song from the radio under my breath, something stupid and poppy, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.
Therapy always leaves me wrung out and weirdly hopeful, like I just went emotionally to the gym.
Net-thinking, not line-thinking.
That’s the phrase echoing in my head as I kill the engine and grab my stuff.
Caleb didn’t answer my last text—no big deal. Stats review plus exam week plus his brain being a dick equals him probably buried under highlighters somewhere. I picture him in the library, hood up, chewing on his pen, drawing tiny basketballs in the margins of his notes.
It makes me smile as I walk up the pathway to the front door. The hallway that separates our condo from the neighbors smells like curry and cheap weed. Normal. I fish my keys out of my pocket and unlock the door.
“Baby, I’m home!” I call as I step inside because I’m disgusting like that. What can I say? I live for the gross, overly romantic shit.
No answer.
Not weird, necessarily. He could have headphones in. Or be in the shower. Or taking a nap face-down, drooling into the pillow.
I set my tool bag down by the couch. The place is… quiet. No TV noise, no low music. The lights are off except the little one over the stove.
My chest tightens a millimeter.
“Caleb?” I try again, softer.
Still nothing.
I take off my boots, flip on the living room light and find the couch empty. His backpack is by the door, one strap twisted, and the laptop is sitting on the coffee table, closed. There’s a mug with a coffee ring and a plate with one sad, uneaten chip.
On the counter, his phone lies face down next to the stove.
That’s what makes my internal alarm go off. Caleb never leaves his phone. Not like this. Not during exam week when group chats are popping off.
A little cold thread slips down my spine.
“Okay,” I mutter. “He’s probably showering. Or taking a shit. Calm down, Veracruz.”
I don’t hear the shower going.
So I pick up his phone, thumb pressing the button out of habit.
The screen lights up. 6:43 p.m.
No new notifications.
Our thread at the top, my last text sitting there unanswered.
Miguel
Therapy done. Dr. O says I’m not allowed to be God anymore, so you’re officially on your own with stats.
How’s it going?
Sent at 3:27.
Nothing since.
My heart flips.
There’s an email notification on his lock screen. Subject line: Campus Crisis Resources.
“Caleb,” I call again, louder this time. “Where you at, hermoso?”
I walk down the short hall. The bathroom door is open, light off. Empty. The toothbrushes are where they should be. The cabinet’s ajar.
Peeking my head around the door, I notice our bedroom door is closed. That’s… not unusual.
Why is the door closed?
Caleb doesn’t like closed doors.
An electric buzzing starts in my ears.
I put my hand on the knob and turn.
It stops halfway.
Locked.
We don’t lock it. Not from the inside. Not unless… unless we’re doing very specific things that definitely aren’t happening right now. My stomach drops straight through the floor.
“Caleb?” My voice comes out sharp. “Hey. Open the door.”
Nothing.
I knock, hard enough to rattle the cheap wood, my thoughts going from zero to sixty. “Caleb. Open the fucking door or I’m putting my shoulder through it.”
Silence.
Not even the rustle of the sheet or the pissed-off grumble he’d give me if I woke him up.
The buzzing in my ears turns into a roar.
“Okay,” I tell myself, very calmly, like if I use my job voice, the rest will follow. “We’ll check. That’s all. We’re just… checking.” I take two steps back, plant my feet like I’m about to tackle somebody on the field, and slam my shoulder into the door right by the latch.
Pain explodes through my arm, but the frame splinters with a crack. The door bounces, then gives all at once, swinging inward.
For a second, everything slows down, and the room comes into focus.
The blinds are half-open, letting in a smear of dying light. The room smells wrong, sweat and something sharp underneath, like metal. Caleb is on the bed, sideways across it, one arm flung out, the sheet twisted under him.
There’s a dark stain on the duvet near his hand, spreading like a flower.
“Caleb.”
My voice shreds itself on his name as I lunge forward.
He doesn’t move.
Caleb’s lying on his side and his eyes are half-closed, lashes clumped. His skin looks… off. Too pale around the mouth, a weird gray-green tinge under the tan. His lips are parted just enough for a shallow, rattly breath.
His left wrist—oh God.
There’s blood. Enough. A smear on the sheet. A slow, steady ooze from a line across old scars. Next to his hip, a razor blade glints on the duvet like punctuation. On the nightstand, an orange pill bottle lies on its side, cap off, with a few tablets scattered.
For a microsecond, my brain blanks.
Then everything hits at once.
“No,” I hear myself say. “No, no, no, no, no.”
I drop to my knees by the bed, hands already reaching. One goes straight to his shoulder, shaking. The other hovers over his wrist, too scared to touch.
“Caleb. Caleb, hey. Baby. Wake up. Open your eyes.”
Nothing.
His chest rises and falls. Shallow. Too slow.
He’s breathing.
He’s breathing.
“Okay. Okay.” My voice is high and weird. “You’re here. You’re—fuck.”
The safety plan is screaming in my head now, every line neon.
Call 911.
My hands are shaking so hard I almost drop my phone trying to pull it out. For a second, I fumble between his and mine, almost dialing from the wrong one like that matters.
9-1-1.
The ring barely finishes before a calm voice answers. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”
“My… my boyfriend,” I say. “He… he took something. Pills. And he cut—his wrist—he… he’s… not—”
“Okay,” the operator says, steady as a metronome. “I need you to take a breath for me. What is your address?”
I give it, staring at the shallow rise and fall of Caleb’s chest like I can make it keep happening by force of will. My free hand presses against his shoulder, feeling the barely there warmth of his skin, the unnatural limpness. There’s tacky blood where my fingers brush the inside of his forearm.
“What’s his name?” the operator asks.
“Caleb. Caleb Burton. He’s twenty-two. He—” My voice cracks.
“He tried to kill himself. I think. There's pills. Ambien or something. And—” I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them again because I can’t not look at him.
“And he cut his wrist, but it’s not—there’s not a lot of blood. He’s breathing, but he won’t wake up.”
“Okay, Miguel,” the operator says. He knows my name. I must’ve given it. I don’t remember doing it. “Help is on the way. Stay on the line with me. How long ago do you think he took the pills?”
“I… I don’t know,” I say. My brain scrambles, trying to reconstruct the day. “I’ve… I’ve been gone since nine. I was at work and then therapy—I got home, like, five minutes ago. He wasn’t answering his phone all day.”
“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to assume it was within the last several hours. Is he responding at all? Try calling his name again. Can you try giving him a gentle shake?”
I put the phone on speaker, hands slick, and set it on the bed. Then I grab Caleb’s face between my palms, not gentle at all.
“Caleb. Hey. Hey. Look at me.” My voice is too loud, bouncing off the walls. “Open your eyes. You’re not allowed to do this. Come on.”
His eyelids flutter, just barely. For a second, a sliver of brown shows, unfocused and glassy. His lips move like he’s trying to say something. No sound comes out.
“His lips moved.” I shout, probably don’t need to because the phone is right there.
“Good,” the operator says. “That’s good. He’s semi-responsive. I need you to lay him on his side if he’s not already, in case he vomits. Keep his airway clear.”
“He is,” I say. “He’s… he’s already on his side.”
My hands go to his shoulder and hip anyway, rolling him a little more, making sure his mouth is angled toward the mattress, not flat up. He makes a small sound, more of an exhale than anything, and my heart lurches.
“I’ve got you,” I mutter. “I’ve got you, baby. Stay with me. Stay with me.”
There’s blood on my fingers now, sticky and half-dried. The cut on his wrist is shallow, thank God, more a panic line than a real attempt. The pills—the pills are the main thing.
“How bad is the bleeding?” the operator asks.
“Not… not a lot,” I say, swallowing hard. “It’s like. A cut across old ones. It’s—there’s blood, but it’s not—” I wrench my own mind away from the image. “It’s not gushing or anything.”
“Good,” he says. “We’ll focus on the ingestion. What kind of pills are they? Can you read the bottle to me?”
I snatch the orange bottle from the nightstand, nearly drop it, fumble, and catch it. The label swims in front of my eyes for a second before I force it into focus.
Reading out the name, the dosage, the ‘take one at bedtime as needed.’ Insomnia meds.
Of course.
We should have thrown them out when we argued about them.
“Do you know approximately how many were left?” the operator asks.
My mind flashes to the last time I’d counted. “There were… like ten? Maybe twelve? I don’t… I don’t know if he took all of them. The bottle’s on its side, there’s a few on the bed. I don’t—”
“That’s okay,” he says. “You’re doing great. Paramedics are en route. Do you have anyone else in the house with you?”
“No,” I say. “Just me. Just… just him and me.” My voice cracks again.
Somewhere under the panic, a furious little voice is screaming, Fuck net-thinking. I am the line. I am the fucking line.
“Okay,” the operator says. “Stay with him. Talk to him. If he stops breathing or you can’t feel a pulse, tell me immediately. I’ll walk you through CPR.”
“He’s breathing,” I say quickly. “He’s… he’s breathing. His heart’s—” I shove my hand against his chest, feeling for the thump.
There.