Oh my God. He could die.
Okay. Time to go.
“Do you have a wallet? ID? An insurance card?”
“I’m okay. It’ll pa—fuck! Holy fuck,” he groaned long and deep, the length of his body tensing with a cry that took another bite out of me.
“I know. You’re fine, but come on anyway, okay? I don’t want your dad to see me trying to put you in my car while you fight me and think I’m trying to kidnap you. He’s not answering, so we can’t ask him what to do. I can try and call your uncle on the way, is that okay? You said something about calling your uncle, right?” I asked, tapping his shoulder. “You can’t die on me, Amos. I swear I won’t be able to live with myself if you do. You’re too young. You have too much left to live for. I’m not as young as you, but I’ve still got at least another forty years left in me. Please don’t let your dad kill me either.”
He tipped his head and looked at me with big, panicked eyes. “I’m going to die?” he whimpered.
“I don’t know! I don’t want you to! Let’s go to the hospital and make sure you don’t, okay?” I suggested, knowing I sounded hysterical and was probably scaring the shit out of him, but he was scaring the shit out of me, and I wasn’t as much of an adult as my birth certificate said I should be.
He didn’t move for so long I thought for sure he was going to keep arguing and I was going to have to call 911, but in the span of a couple of breaths I sucked in through my nose, he must have come to a decision because he slowly tried to climb to his feet.
Thank God, thank God, thank God.
There were tearstains down his cheeks.
He moaned.
He groaned.
Grunted.
And I knew I saw a couple fresh tears stream down his sweaty face. He had the beginnings of his father’s sharp features, but leaner, younger, without the rugged maturity. One day he would though. He couldn’t fucking have his appendix rupture on me. No way.
The teenager leaned against me big-time, whimpering but trying his damnedest not to.
The fifty feet to my car felt like ten miles, and I regretted not driving over. But I got him into the passenger seat and leaned over to strap his seat belt on. Then I ran around the back and got behind the wheel, turning it on and then pausing.
“Amos, can I borrow your phone? Can I try to call your dad again for you? Or your uncle? Or your mom? Anybody? Somebody?”
He pretty much threw his phone at me.
Okay.
Then he muttered a few numbers I figured were his lock code.
He leaned against the window, his face this pale bronze that bordered on a shade of green, and he looked about ready to projectile vomit.
Fuck.
Blasting the air conditioning, I grabbed an old grocery bag from under my seat and set it on his leg. “In case you want to throw up, but don’t sweat it if you don’t make it. I was thinking about trading this in anyway.”
He said nothing, but one more tear made its way down his cheek, and suddenly, I wanted to cry too.
But I didn’t have time for that shit.
Unlocking his phone, I went straight to his recent contacts. Sure enough, his last call had been to his dad about ten minutes ago. There was still barely just enough cell service for a call, and I tried again. It rang and rang. This was my luck.
I glanced at the boy as a standard “The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable” recording popped up, and I waited for the beep.
I could do this. It wasn’t like I had another choice. “Hi, Mr. Rhodes, this is Aurora. Ora, whatever. I’m taking Amos to the hospital. I don’t know which one. Is there more than one in Pagosa? I think he might have appendicitis. I found him outside with a lot of stomach pain. I’ll call you when I know where I’m taking him. I have his phone. Okay, bye.”
Well, that lack of information might come back and kick me in the ass, but I didn’t want to waste time on the phone explaining. There was a hospital I needed to find and get to. Stat.
I backed up, made it to the road where I’d learned I got some cell reception, opened my navigation app, found the nearest medical facility—there was an emergency room and one hospital—and set it to navigate. Then with my other hand, I grabbed Amos’s phone again, cast one more glance at the poor kid who was opening and closing his fist, his body faintly trembling with what I could only assume was pain, and asked, “What’s your uncle’s name?”
He didn’t look at me. “Johnny.”
I winced and turned the knob for the air conditioner as cold as it could get when I spotted a bead of sweat at his temple. It wasn’t hot; he was just feeling that bad. Shit.