Chapter Twelve
Sunny
My chest won’t rise right.
Like someone piled bricks on it in my sleep.
I blink into the dark, my thoughts swimming through sludge. Nothing feels real.
Am I dreaming?
No. Something’s wrong .
The room shifts sideways. I try to sit up, but gravity’s cruel, and my limbs are jelly. My arms flop uselessly at my sides. My fingers aren’t listening.
I’m sweating. Cold. Clammy.
The kind of sweat that means danger.
I know that. My brain keeps shouting it, but everything else is whispering, shh, just close your eyes .
No.
I try to roll over. My heart stumbles in my chest. Too slow. Then too fast. Like it forgot the rhythm and is trying to catch up.
Panic claws at me. My breath is shallow, barely scraping in and out of my lungs.
Why can’t I breathe?
Get help. Call someone.
My phone.
Where’s my phone?
I paw at the nightstand, knocking over a lamp. A dull crash sounds far away. Like I’m underwater.
My fingers find the phone. The screen lights up and it’s blinding. Words spinning, shifting, sliding away before I can focus.
There’s a number. There’s always a number. An emergency number.
Three digits.
What are they?
My brain blanks. I know this. Everyone knows this. But it’s gone. My thoughts are ice water, slipping through my hands.
Nine. Nine what?
Dammit, Sunny, THINK.
I scroll. I don’t know what I’m looking for. My thumb jabs uselessly. Did I call someone? Did it ring?
I don’t remember.
Jack.
Where’s Jack?
I whisper his name. I think I do. Maybe it’s just in my head. I see him as a hero.
Call Jack. I say out loud. At least, I try. Did it work? Is he coming?
The room tips again. My body slumps sideways, and the phone slides from my hand, landing somewhere on the floor.
No. No, no, no…
I try to cry, but even that takes too much air.
The buzzing in my ears gets louder. My vision tunnels. I’m floating, drowning, suffocating all at once.
I’m not ready to die.
Please.
Please someone find me.
Please… Jack…
Help me.
***Bones***
I don’t remember driving here.
I don’t remember running up the steps or how I managed to kick her goddamn door in without taking the whole wall down with it. I just remember the silence.
And then I saw her.
“Sunny,” I whisper, beg, as I drop to my knees.
She’s lying on her side, crumpled like a doll someone tossed aside. Her skin’s gray. Not pale. Gray . Her lips are tinted blue, and for one terrifying second, I think I’m too late.
“No. No, no, no, baby, don’t you fucking do this to me.” My hands shake as I dig into my pocket and pull out the Narcan. I rip the cap off the first dose with my teeth and plunge the auto-injector into her thigh.
Nothing.
Just a gurgling sound like the last bit of air trying to claw its way out of her lungs.
“Breathe,” I growl. “Come on , Sunny. Don’t do this.”
I feel for a pulse…nothing.
No. Please, no.
I tilt her back and give her my breath before I start chest compressions. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Then a breath. Again and again. Over and over. My arms are a machine. I count like my soul depends on it. Because it does.
“Don’t you die,” I whisper. “Don’t you fucking die on me.”
Her ribs crack beneath my hands. There’s bile in my throat knowing I broke her fucking bones. I’m pouring sweat, but I keep going. I won’t stop.
“Come back to me, baby. Come back to me.”
Two minutes. I inject the second dose.
I hold compressions. I hold my breath. I don’t so much as blink.
Her body jerks, and suddenly, finally , she gasps.
Not soft. Not sweet. It’s harsh, ugly, and wet. But it’s a breath. A real, God-given breath .
“Oh, thank God,” I choke out, dragging her into my lap. Her eyes don’t open. She’s not there yet. But she’s breathing.
That’s when I hear Spike behind me, loud boots, and louder voices as the paramedics barrel into the room.
“She’s stable for now,” one of them says, checking her vitals. “We’ve got her.”
“You better,” I say, my voice like sandpaper soaked in gasoline.
I don’t let go of her until they physically pull her from my arms.
“I’m right behind you,” I tell them.
“Someone’s gonna die,” Spike says as we follow the ambulance back to the hospital.
“Very fucking painfully,” I agree.