26. Jake
Jake
M y heart beats a little slower with every page that I work through. With every new piece of information that we unpick through the middle of the night.
Until it feels like it’s not beating at all.
I read one line again. And again. And again. Trying to make sense of what I’m seeing, because it’s not fucking possible.
My lips barely form around the words, even as I fight to understand them.
“She’s dying.”
Not possible.
Notpossiblenotpossiblenotpossible—
But I should have known. I should have fucking known , because I saw it. Before.
None of them look up. They didn’t hear me. Each of them is ashen, lost in a nightmare of our own making.
We should have seen this.
But I did. I saw it on Nia’s computer screen. Went up there with Max and forced my mate to show me her fucking teeth like it was some form of proof, and I let myself relax because she wasn’t rabid, and snapping, and snarling. She wasn’t a monster .
She was just broken. And I failed her. Again, and again, and again.
I say it again. And I hate every word, as if voicing it might give truth to what’s staring me in the face. I snap it, harsh and jagged anger in every word. “She’s dying.”
Prognosis is terminal. Patient requires end-of-life palliative care. Feral status is expected to develop within six months. Heart failure expected within eight months.
The air turns eerily still as their heads lift.
And then Oscar is tearing the paper from my hand, scanning the words I just read. He repeats the movement, over and over. His head begins to shake.
It won’t change it.
“No,” he says finally. “That’s not—,”
Max snatches it from him, mouthing the words. Theo… Theo doesn’t move.
The paper flutters down onto the table. None of us speak.
Carefully, I push my chair back. None of them stop me.
She’s dying.
Kennedy is dying.
Kenny.
And then I’m outside, my roar bursting out into the darkness. Around us, lights flicker on in the houses.
Heart failure expected within eight months.
My mate is dying. Just like my mom.
My fist slams into the ground. I’m on my knees, not remembering how I got there. Again, and again. Bones crunch, and then arms wrap around me, pulling me back.
Max and Oscar are talking to me. But their voices buzz in and out. I shake my head, trying to clear my ears.
Theo’s eyes meet mine. He knows. I can see it in his face, even as Max and Oscar talk about plans, and the truck, and getting up.
There is no fixing this.
No fixing her.
And there will never be a fix for me. Not without her.