My anxiety is mounting, blowing up my heart like an erupting volcano.
Between my blood pressure cuff and all the electrodes, my ECG monitor is going off.
“Breathe, O-Bro, breathe,” Dalma says, rubbing smooth circles into my palm.
Easier said than done, but I don’t go off, she’s only trying to help. It’s just really frustrating being treated like I’m catching my breath after running a marathon when in reality I’m literally lying in a hospital bed and my heart is racing more than someone who’s been sprinting. I’ve been combating with home remedies, trying to get better. First we worked fish into every meal—fish tacos, anchovy pizza, salmon chowder—so I can get all the omega-3 acids I need to reduce the risk of sudden cardiac death. No lie, I was relieved when it wasn’t doing the trick because those meals were so gross, one hundred percent not for me; I went full vegetarian after that. Then we experimented with beta-blockers to slow down my heart rate, but my lungs kept spasming, and suffocating is a no-go when you’re trying to live. Lately I’ve done a couple yoga classes with Dalma to strengthen all my muscles, but all that quiet time leads to anxious thoughts and panic attacks, which, you guessed it, makes my heart run wild.
Like now.
When all else fails, I try little exercises that can be done anywhere, stuff like gagging on my finger or hugging my knees to my chest. Though when the attacks are bad, like tonight at Times Square, even something as simple as that is unmanageable.
For now, I do my favorite technique, which is just holding my nose and mouth shut and trying to blow out air. The basic science behind this is to help me relax and slow down my heartbeat and keep me alive. I used to feel mad silly doing this in front of Team Young, aka my new family, especially because Floyd said I looked like a chipmunk with inflated cheeks, but it’s better to get laughed at like some fool than mourned as a corpse in a casket.
“Good job,” Dr. Emeterio says.
“Keep it up,” Dalma encourages, then, “I mean, keep up the good work, but bring down your heart rate.”
I can tell I’m about to cry, but I can’t lock it down, the tears start flowing because of how much I hate all of this. My ears pop, and I finally exhale—first the breath, then the loud sob that couldn’t stay buried.
Valentino stares, looking haunted as he watches me fight for life again.
I close my eyes, focusing on my breath, telling myself that I’m going to be okay. Death-Cast won’t call in the next few minutes, as their window for today’s End Day alerts is coming to a close. Everything slows down, and I imagine the good things in life I have to look forward to, like writing more short stories and tanning on our brownstone’s roof some more and discovering myself and falling in love with a good-hearted person.
Then I open my eyes, and Valentino isn’t here anymore.
“How are you feeling?” Dr. Emeterio asks.
There’s always a thousand answers to that question. I keep it simple. “I’m fine.”
“Good. Maybe you should get some rest.”
I can’t rest when I’m so restless.
“Where did Valentino go?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Dalma says.
“A word of advice,” Dr. Emeterio kindly says. “I have no insider info on Death-Cast, but if they called Valentino, it’s in his best interest to operate as if their prediction is correct. It’s a terrible loss whenever someone assumes they have more time than they do.”
So much for expecting mistakes to be made.
But the doctor’s right, and I don’t always swear by that.
I keep trying to get Valentino to believe that he’s got all the time in the world, but that’s not going to do him any favors if he drops dead without having lived his End Day right. If Death-Cast is wrong, then that’s going to be a happy surprise.