Chapter Two
Dylan
The lancet pricked the side of my finger, and I dropped it into the trash to reach for the test strip, letting it soak up the drop of blood before inserting it into the meter.
“I heard you, girl,” I called to the whining chocolate lab at my feet. “Alright. You were right,” I said to myself when my sugar came up low.
I should have noticed the sweaty and shaky sensation before she’d needed to warn me.
I tossed the test strip and walked through my kitchen to reach for my glucose tablets, only to remember I’d run out two days ago and hadn’t gone out to grab more.
With a sigh, I went into the fridge for half a cup of apple juice instead. Another thing I was almost out of.
But I had fresh dog food sitting waiting for her, so I dished that out, adding a few toppers to keep it interesting.
“I gotta get better about this shit, huh, Sugar?”
Yes.
I named my diabetic service dog Sugar.
Sometimes we have to lean into the whimsy when things get scary.
But I really did need to get better.
Or nut up and finally get myself a continuous glucose monitor.
In my defense, the whole testing, numbers, new diet, and having constant supplies of sugary stuff on hand was new to me.
I’d been under the impression that adults only developed diabetes from improper diet, genetics, or weight gain. None of which applied to me.
I guess I’d never had a reason to learn that wasn’t the case. Or that, hey, the type of diabetes I understood—where your body becomes resistant to or stops making insulin—was only one part of the picture.
Apparently, it turned out that Type 1 was an autoimmune condition that can be caused by any number of things, even in adulthood.
Like me.
Who just got a nasty virus once.
I thought nothing of it.
Got better.
And then… bam.
Everything went sideways.
I was so thirsty that I was drinking a gallon of water a day with no relief.
I was peeing nonstop. I was exhausted no matter how much I slept.
I was losing weight for no reason. And then my vision started to go funny, making my doctor-phobic ass finally make an appointment to see what the hell was going on.
I guess I’d been hoping for something simple. Like, hey, maybe you need an iron pill or eat a steak once a week or something.
Not a lifelong chronic illness I would have to manage all day, every day.
“When you’re done, I guess we can take a walk to the pharmacy, huh? Get me my tablets. And juice. Candy for my purse. Some diet soda. And maybe a new baby for you. Keep you occupied for a while. Because Mama has to go out tonight.”
I didn’t leave Sugar often.
It kind of defeated the purpose of having a diabetic alert dog to leave her home when you were going out. But there were just some things that you couldn’t bring your dog to do.
She wasn’t going to be happy about it.
But I hoped she was quiet enough not to bother the neighbors.
I didn’t plan to be gone that long.
And I was going to test before I left.
Bring everything I’d need to correct with me.
“Ugh,” I grumbled as I stalked to my bathroom.
I knew it wasn’t helping anything, but I couldn’t rationalize with my anger about the whole situation sometimes.
It was just really fucking frustrating that my body wasn’t working like it used to. That I had to watch, had to monitor, had to second-guess everything I wanted to do because what if my sugar went too high or too low?
I was used to my body doing what it was supposed to, with pushing through discomfort if I was busy.
But I couldn’t do that anymore.
If I wasn’t careful, highs or lows could get downright dangerous. I had to be hyperaware of my body sensations. I had to stop when they were telling me something. I had to test, to correct, to test again.
It felt like it was getting in the way.
Especially on important nights like this.
Nights when I had to be away from home for long periods, when I couldn’t carry a whole bag full of supplies with me. When things could get messy and dangerous. And prolong testing.
I sighed, pushing those thoughts away, then reached into the shower to turn on the water.
I moved in front of the mirror, reminding myself that I was adjusting, that things were getting a little better. I’d even put a little weight back on. I could see it in my cheeks. They’d become sunken before I’d gotten diagnosed.
I looked like me again.
Full cheeks, full lips, cleft chin, brown eyes that didn’t look permanently puffy and purple-smudged from exhaustion.
I reached up, pulling my brown hair from its claw clip, then started to strip.
My body wasn’t fully back to normal yet. I still had another five or ten pounds to gain back to get where I used to be.
I wanted to get back to working out, lifting weights, but I knew that exercise could cause rapid blood sugar changes, and I’d been too paranoid to take the risk yet.
There was time.
I had to focus on my priorities.
And the top of that list was gathering intel.
Then planning my damn revenge.
After that, I could focus on getting my life more on track. Get better about monitoring. Learn to cook so I could better manage my levels. Find the courage to workout again. Learn to stop being so angry.
But today was not that day, so I took my shower, got dressed in all black, as usual, slipped on some hoop earrings and red lipstick, then went back into the kitchen to test again.
“Today is not my day,” I grumbled at the result, then went to get more juice.
I waited another fifteen minutes to test yet again. Finally, I was where I should be and could grab Sugar’s leash, my bag, and head out of my apartment.
“It’s a nice day, huh?” I asked her as we set a leisurely pace out of the apartment complex and down the palm tree-lined suburbs.
It had taken a lot of getting used to, living around downtown Fontana. It was an area my friends and I frequented a lot for fun. Though, yeah, if we really wanted to yuck it up, we went into L.A.
But up until the past year, I’d lived in the nearby rural area around Lytle Creek. Quiet. Seclusion. Away from prying eyes. Just how I liked it.
So living in a busy city with two hundred thousand other people? Yeah, that was not my ideal by any stretch of the imagination.
“We’re making do, though, right?” I asked Sugar as she stopped to read her pee-mail on a fire hydrant we passed as we got closer to the downtown city center. “Lotta news today, huh?” I asked as she sniffed away.
We didn’t get out much, so I tried to let her do all the sniffing she wanted when we were out on a walk.
We finally made it to the pharmacy.
I still tensed up each time we walked into a non-dog-friendly building, thanks to one random woman who came at me the second time I brought Sugar into a store with me right after I got matched with her.
She’d been ranting and raving about people bringing dogs into grocery stores.
And when I’d explained that Sugar was an actual, trained medical alert dog, she’d gone off about how I didn’t look sick and blah blah blah.
I patted myself on the back for having the self-control not to knock her out. But it went through my mind every single time we walked into a store now.
I wasn’t sure I exhaled until I had four bottles of glucose tablets, some juice, candy, a toy for Sugar, and a single diet soda, since I didn’t feel like carrying a whole pack all the way home.
“I’m really going to have to invest in a car now, huh?” I asked Sugar, who turned to look at me, her golden eyes bright as she pranced alongside me, her gaze constantly going to the bag, knowing the toy was hiding in there.
The walkability was one of the big factors in moving to this city. Well, the walkability and the anonymity, the ability to disappear into the crowd. Which felt like a very important factor when I’d been all alone in the world and on a dangerous organization’s ‘most wanted’ list.
I got my little apartment in a very average, very built-up community. I healed. I got sick. Then had my health turned upside down.
All the while, I stewed.
I fantasized.
I plotted.
But it was finally, finally time to set all that planning into motion.
We stopped off at the quad behind the apartment buildings, checking to make sure there was no one around who would complain, then found a stick and threw it for Sugar to catch until she was good and tired.
Then, finally, it was time to go inside for her to unwind, for me to throw together a salad with a few cubes of prepared chicken I still had left, then I hemmed and hawed about whether I needed a shot of insulin before finally giving myself a small dose before placing a grocery delivery order to stock up on easy things to eat for the next few days.
Because I was planning on things getting busy.
That is, if everything didn’t go to hell later that night, though.
“Okay, baby,” I said a few hours later after taking Sugar for another walk to make sure she did her business and was at least a little tired out. “You had dinner. You have water. The TV is set to your favorite fish tank channel. You have everything you need to be a good girl while I’m gone.”
I tossed her the toy from earlier. But it was a testament to how much I’d tired her out that she took it, put it on her bed, then just curled up and rested her head on it instead of playing.
Satisfied with that, I switched into a pair of combat boots and a leather jacket. I pulled back my hair.
Then I went into my nightstand, reached into the top drawer, took out, and slid the gun into my shoulder holster.
The binoculars were next, sliding into a handy-dandy little belt holder.
I left my normal phone.
But I took a burner.
“I’m sorry, baby,” I cooed at Sugar, who tried to follow me to the door. “I know you think you need to come, but I have to do this by myself.”
First, because there was no room.
But more importantly, because it wouldn’t be safe.
I was okay with putting my own life at risk. But not hers.
I was so paranoid about this little mission of mine that I had an app set up to send an emergency text to one of my neighbors who also had a lab if I didn’t check in by five in the morning.
Because if I didn’t get back by five, chances were, I was never coming back.
And the text would tell her where a spare key was hidden and that Sugar needed someone to look after her for a few days because of a family emergency that took me out of town.
Would those ‘few days’ turn into a lifetime? Yep. But the text would also tell her where to find some spare cash as a thank-you. And that spare cash was several grand to help cover the costs when I never came home.
“I love you, you know that, right?” I asked as I lowered down to rub her wide head between both my hands.
“No matter what, I love you, okay?” Shockingly, tears sprang to my eyes.
I was not someone who cried. Ever. “And if I don’t come home, I hope you have a super happy life with Diana and Artemis.
I know you want to come,” I said when she whined.
“But you have to settle,” I told her, feeling like a bitch when she whined again, but went to her bed like her training taught her to do.
With that, I grabbed my helmet and left the apartment before I lost my nerve.
“Hey, girl,” I cooed to my bike as I rolled her out of my minuscule storage unit the apartment complex provided.
I hadn’t been on my bike in weeks.
And the way my belly fluttered made me realize I was actually nervous.
Nervous.
To ride my bike.
Something I’d been doing almost daily since I was eighteen.
Until those bastards ruined that for me.
On top of everything else.
Well, I told myself as I strapped on my helmet and sat down on my seat, they were going to start paying for that.
Starting that night.