“Three days?!” I regret the loud shriek as soon as it leaves my mouth. My head and lungs work, revolting against me one cough at a time. The pulsing intensifies the more I hack.
“In my professional opinion, she needs to be taken to a hospital.”
“Hospital?” Rowan and I both speak at the same time. He practically spits the word out.
I look over at him. He looks almost as bad as I feel, with days’ worth of stubble covering his face. The bags under his eyes stand out even more now because of how red his eyes are. He looks like he might keel over any second.
My chest aches for an entirely different reason than my illness.
The doctor stands and packs up his medical bag. “She’s severely dehydrated and needs proper medical care.”
“Anything else you suggest?”
“Based on the symptoms you described and what I see and hear, it’s probably some kind of viral pneumonia. Her tissues are covered with green mucus and she has a fever. If you don’t take her to the hospital tonight, she’s going to end up in the back of an ambulance soon enough.”
Pneumonia? Shit. No. That sounds scary. The only person I know who got pneumonia was one of my parent’s friends and he didn’t make it.
I want to cry, but I don’t think I have enough water in my body to produce tears. I sweat it all out on day two.
While Rowan sees the doctor out, I sit up and fumble for my phone. I should call my parents and let them know about how sick I am. Except I can’t find my phone anywhere within the sheets or on the nightstand.
Did I leave it in the bathroom? I slide out of bed and stand on weak legs. My walk to the bathroom steals all my energy, and the room spins.
I grab the handle for stability and push the door open. My legs give out at the same time, and all I see is black.
42
Rowan
I dismiss the doctor and shut the front door.
Pneumonia? How the hell did Zahra go from making snow angels in Central Park less than a week ago to a nasty case of pneumonia? She went from the sniffles to bedridden faster than I’ve seen anyone decline.
Something thumping against the floor makes the ceiling vibrate.
“Zahra?” I bolt up the stairs and throw open the bedroom door at the end of the hall. The pulse point at my neck throbs to a wickedly fast beat as I walk into the empty bedroom. The sheets are nothing but a haphazard mess, empty of the severely ill woman who should be sleeping.
My eyes snap to the bathroom door.
“Shit!” I don’t think. I don’t breathe. I do nothing but run toward a set of tan legs peeking out from the doorframe. My knees slam into the marble beside a small puddle of blood.
“Zahra? Zahra! Are you okay?” My voice croaks.
I drag her useless body into my arms. With a shaky hand, I swipe her hair away from her face. She’s pale. Too pale. Like the life was drained out of her somehow within the five minutes I went to show the doctor out. I’m pretty sure a piece of my frozen heart shatters right off.
She doesn’t respond, and her eyes remain shut. Her chest rises and falls from her shallow breaths, and I exhale slowly, relieved she’s breathing. A trail of blood seeps from a nasty gash at the top of her forehead.
I’m careful not to jostle her as I fumble for my cellphone in my pocket and dial 911. They ask too many damn questions, and I’m at a loss for answers except to tell them to get here fast.
“Zahra.” I reach for a hand towel within arm’s distance and press it against her head wound.
She doesn’t wince. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t do anything but lay there in my arms, absent of everything that makes her so very her.