Chapter 15
Ambulance. Deputies. Sheriff.
When Bobby got there, I was in the back of the ambulance, wearing a cannula and getting all the oxygen I wanted.
The expression on his face made me croak, “It’s not as bad as it looks.”
He hovered over me, hesitating, hands held out like he wasn’t sure if he could touch me.
So, I took one of his hands in my own. His answer came in the form of a crushingly tight grip—I could feel the bones of my hand grinding against each other.
His other hand touched my hair, my cheek, my chest. He started breathing faster and faster.
“It’s okay,” I said, struggling to sit up. Even though it hurt to talk, I said, “I’m okay.”
He shook his head, still taking those awful, shallow breaths.
I jiggled the cannula. “Do you want me to see if they have a couple’s package for these things?”
Bobby squeezed his eyes shut. But he gave a broken laugh and shook his head, and after that, things were better.
The paramedics were less optimistic.
“He should be in a hospital,” one of them said. She looked like she’d come from a metal concert, complete with purple hair, a black leather bracelet, and a pyramid stud belt.
“I’m fine,” I managed. “I can breathe.”
“What about damage to your larynx? Or the vocal cords? Or cerebral hypoxia?”
It took me a little longer this time to insist, “I feel fine.”
(By this point, that was a bald-faced lie—my throat was on fire, and every time I croaked a word, it was even worse.)
“We’re going to the hospital,” Bobby said. “I’ll ask Indira to grab you some clothes.”
I wanted to say something about having Indira close her eyes while she picked out my underwear, but my throat hurt too much, so I didn’t. And after a few minutes, exhaustion caught me and dragged me down.
The ambulance rocked slightly when Bobby came back. I was too tired to open my eyes, but I liked knowing he was there. A minute passed. And then another. And I realized I was smelling saltwater.
When I opened my eyes, Keme was looking down at me. He had a bandage on his forehead, and he’d been crying, but he wasn’t crying now. One minute trickled into another.
And then I said, “I’m sorry.”
He shook his head. His hair was starting to stiffen from the salt.
“I should have—” But the pain made my throat clench.
He shook his head again.
After a while, when I felt like I could manage it, I said, “Thanks.”
He started to cry again, which was probably why he said—in a tone of one thousand percent frustration—“Dash, stop talking!”
So, I did.
And then I said, “I love you.”
(It’s less complimentary when you sound like a tired frog.)
His eyelids fluttered, and he looked away.
But when I held out my hand, he gripped it even harder than Bobby had. (Have I mentioned he’s freakishly strong?)
Boys, you know?