This isn’t helping.
Orion and Dalma are no danger to me. If someone wants to kill me, it’s probably some other model who wants my campaign gig.
No.
I’m done entertaining thoughts on who wants to murder me.
Last time I checked, I’m not a fortune-teller who can lay out some cards and discover my fate. I’ve been told everything there is to know: I’m going to die tonight, or later today if I’m lucky. Even if none of this feels lucky at all.
We arrive at Lenox Hill Hospital, and I carry Orion down the halls as Dalma leads me to the emergency room. Everything is moving so quickly as the nurses come around the counter and examine Orion as Dalma fills them in on his condition. I place Orion on a roll-away bed, telling him he’s going to be okay.
The nurse wheels Orion behind a curtain. “Family only,” she says as Dalma follows.
“I am family,” Dalma says.
The nurse seems doubtful. “By blood?”
“By law.”
The nurse nods, pulling the curtain closed around them.
“Did Death-Cast call Orion?” I hear the nurse ask.
“No. Let’s not give them any reason to,” Dalma says.
That nurse’s question is unreal. There’s been a lot of debate since Death-Cast was announced about what the roles of medical professionals will be when it comes to attending to Deckers. Are resources worth using on a patient who won’t live regardless? Should doctors treat everyone without knowing their End Day status? This idea that if Orion had been called by Death-Cast they might not take care of him is horrifying.
That’s going to be my reality.
I’m surely going to be involved in a horrible accident between now and midnight.
Nineteen-year-olds aren’t known for dying of old age, or passing in their sleep.
If I’m brought to the hospital later, will the doctors bother trying to save my life?
Or will they stand there and watch me die?
Orion
12:36 a.m.
There’s a warm light on my face, like I’m about to move on to the afterlife or something.
But I know this isn’t that.
The nurse is prying open my eyelids, studying my pupils while asking for my name. Before I can answer, Dalma beats her to it.
“It’s Orion. Orion Pagan.”
“We’re checking to see if he knows,” the nurse says.
“Right, gotcha. I’m sorry.”
I can’t see Dalma, but I know she’s panicking. “It’s okay, Dalma,” I manage to breathe out.
“He knows my name,” Dalma says. “That means he’s okay, right?”
Just because I’m not laid out in Times Square anymore doesn’t mean I’m in the clear yet. A lot of people don’t know this, but heart attacks can go on for hours. Ignore every TV show where the character is clutching their chest one minute and dying the next. It’s not like that, even though sometimes that feels more merciful.
For real, every damn blessing to Dalma and Valentino for getting me here ASAP. Even as I’m going through excruciating pain and would’ve been good with being treated sooner in an ambulance, I know riding to the hospital in style like that isn’t cheap. Everyone’s always going on about how my life is priceless and that means paying up so I can live it. Still, Dayana and Floyd go days without checking the mail whenever we’re expecting another bill. Sometimes I think about what Dalma’s family could do with all that money if I just died already.