Prologue #2
After a solid minute and breathing into his mouth twice, Miller interrupts my counting. “Lemme take over, man. You’re gettin’ tired.”
“Do it fast and hard,” I tell him, then take the flashlight from him. “C’mon, Billy. Breathe, breathe!”
Miller does mouth-to-mouth before going back to his chest. After another thirty seconds, we switch again.
“I feel a pulse,” Miller confirms. “It’s weak, but I swear it’s there.”
I check for myself, and he’s right. It’s slow and faint, but his heart’s pumping and that’s all that matters.
When I put my ear to his mouth, I say, “He’s breathin’.”
Barely, but at least it’s something.
“Billy, can you hear me? Squeeze my hand,” I tell him, placing my fingers in his palm. But he doesn’t.
“Should we move him to the side of the road?” Miller asks as we continue to try to get a response from him.
“I don’t think we’re supposed to in case he has a neck or head injury. Billy? Can you move?”
No response.
I grab my phone and dial the sheriff again to give the dispatcher an update.
“I’ve let him know. He’s almost there,” she says after putting me on hold, and a wave of relief washes over me. “I notified the EMTs, too. You did the right thing. Hang tight, boys.”
“Stay with me, okay? Help’s on the way.” I take Billy’s hand in mine, waiting to see if he’ll squeeze or make any movements at all.
“Um…Tripp?” Miller’s shaky voice puts me on edge.
“What?”
“He’s uh…his lips are turnin’ blue.”
I place my fingers on his neck again and feel for his pulse. “It’s weak, but it’s still there.”
With my hands on Billy’s shoulders, I give him a little shake. “Keep breathin’, man.”
Miller’s face looks like he’s seen a ghost. “What if he lost too much blood? Or went too long without oxygen? He could be—”
“Shut the fuck up, okay? He’s fine. He’s gonna be fine. Once the ambulance gets here, they’ll give him oxygen and fluids. He’ll survive this.”
He has to.
He’s my best friend—a fucking idiot—but my best friend nonetheless.
Finally, we hear the sirens and lights approach, followed by the EMTs.
We get out of their way when they place an oxygen mask over his face and put him on a gurney. The sheriff asks me to stay behind so he can get my statement, but I tell him he’ll have to follow me to the hospital because I’m not waiting.
As I drive us into town, I call my brother Landen, then our parents. Miller walks home since he has a house filled with drunk teenagers and wants to make sure no one else drives.
After ten minutes of sitting in the waiting room, my brother and parents show up. I explain more of what happened, and then Billy’s mom and dad barge in.
The nurse at the front desk wouldn’t tell me anything, but they promised to call his parents so they could at least give an update.
“Marissa,” my mom calls, cautiously walking up behind Billy’s mom.
“Dena, oh my God!” Marissa cries into Mom’s chest as she wraps an arm around her.
“It’ll be okay.” Mom strokes her hand up and down Marissa’s back. “He’s a fighter.”
We wait for what feels like hours before a doctor emerges. William and Marissa walk over, desperate for good news.
Standing, I inch closer so I can overhear their conversation.
“Is he okay?” Marissa asks.
“Unfortunately, he lost a lot of blood. We don’t know how long he went without oxygen, so we did a PET scan after the CT, and the results are concerning. He’s on life support to help him breathe, but I’m afraid he won’t be able to survive without it.”
“What?” Marissa shrieks and my knees threaten to give out.
“He’s brain dead?” William stutters. “Is that what you’re tellin’ us?”
The doctor’s gaze lowers for a moment before they make eye contact. “I’m so sorry.”
My throat burns as I swallow down the lump that’s preventing me from inhaling. Everything freezes around me once I take in his words. His diagnosis.
It’s wrong. He’s wrong.
“He’ll wake up,” I say defiantly. “Billy will wake up, and he’ll be fine. Just watch.”
“Is it possible?” Marissa asks the doctor. “Is there a chance he could wake up and be okay? Maybe his brain just needs time to heal. It’s still early. Right?” Her anxious voice echoes across the room.
My parents approach me from behind as the floor threatens to flip me upside down. Dizziness and blurry eyes take over my senses, revving up my panic.
“There is always a chance. Of course, miracles do happen. But in Billy’s case…”
“Don’t say it,” I spit out. Billy isn’t a statistic. He’s going to open his eyes and prove the doctor wrong. I know it.
“I’m so sorry,” the doctor murmurs.
“Can we see him?” William asks.
“Of course. One of the nurses will bring you back.” He nods once before exiting from the same direction he entered.
After a few minutes, a woman approaches and leads us through the emergency doors. She explains that he’s in the ICU and we need to prepare ourselves. Before I can ask what that means, I look through the glass door and see for myself.
He’s hooked up to machines and bandages cover his head where the glass cut him. We stand around his bed in silence.
“We gave him a dose of pain meds so he can’t feel anything. We’ll keep him comfortable until a decision is made.” The nurse’s reassuring voice does nothing to dim the ache penetrating my chest.
The decision is we wait until he wakes up.
“Thank you,” William says after she excuses herself.
Marissa takes Billy’s hand and cries, keeping her focus on his face. My parents stand next to me as I stare at my best friend, who’s never looked this quiet and calm before. He’s pale, but when I touch him, his skin is warm—a contrast to how he felt just hours ago in the middle of the road.
“How am I supposed to let you go?” Marissa sobs and my mother comes over to comfort her. William stands emotionless as if he can’t wrap his mind around what’s happening.
Me neither, if I’m being honest.
After half an hour, the nurse returns and offers blankets to anyone who wishes to stay. There’s a couch and recliner on the other side of the room, but I won’t be able to sleep.
How can I when my best friend is dying?
A week later, hundreds of people show up at Billy’s funeral.
His friends and family give speeches, praising him for his kind heart and willingness to help anyone in need.
They speak about him as if he’s been gone forever.
But it’s only been seven days since I talked to him.
Six days since the doctors confirmed with a second PET scan that he had no brain activity.
Five days since his family had to make the hardest decision of their lives.
Four days since we stood around his bed and said our final goodbyes.
Three days since I held his hand during his honor walk before they donated his organs.
Two days since my first anxiety attack brought me to my knees.
But only one day since I relived that night, wishing I’d just agreed to come so he never got behind the wheel in the first place.
And with that comes a lifetime of guilt.