Sorry, I don’t know why I’m whispering. Feels like the thing to do. Hey, life lesson: if it feels like the thing to do, then do it. Trust your gut. A cliché adults say all the time. Okay, we don’t say it all the time, but we say it a lot. I mean, we’re not walking into Dunks, buying coffee, and randomly saying to the guy with a cruller, Hey, trust yer gut, like it’s the secret adult password. You know what, it might as well be the password. Not enough adults tell kids to trust themselves, trust their wee guts. My parents never said it. They only told me what not to do and what to do. Mostly the first thing. No teacher ever told me to trust your gut either. Which is stupid. No one needs to hear it more than kids do. Instead you’re told the opposite. I don’t have to tell you, right? So many of them make you do stuff you don’t want to do because of convenience or laziness or they want to take advantage of you. They’ll say you don’t know better, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know who you are yet. That’s a big one. And it’s such bullshit. So, listen, only you know you, and if something doesn’t feel right and you can’t explain why, who cares. Trust your gut. Team Guts. Gut trust, all the way. You’re in my gut right now, so it’s like you are already telling you to trust your gut. You are your own gut. It’s like the Inception of gut here. Okay, I’ll stop saying “gut.”
Whoa, did you hear that? Something just banged off the back of the ambulance. Shit . . . .
I wish I could see. No one is yelling or screaming? That’s good, right? Hold on.
Back. I can see Rams in the other side-view mirror. Goddamn, I wish I could turn around. Maybe I should go out there too. She’s talking with one of the boys. I’m going to make this quick.
This might sound weird—especially with the now-you deep-knee bending whenever I do these messages—but as I talk, the you I’m imagining is at least a year, maybe two years older than the you I imagined during the last recording. Wait. Do you get what I’m saying? In my head, it’s like you age with each message I record. Time doesn’t really work like that, but at the same time it does. Yeah, I’m moving time around because I can. You’re growing up right before my eyes, or my mind’s eyes. It’s kind of cool? Maybe?
Actually it’s not cool at all. It’s horribly sad and horrible. Horribly horrible. I’m not trying to be funny. There’s no way for me to describe how brutally terrible it is your dad died in front of me, like, a little over two hours ago and that not only am I not going to be around for you, but I have, um, foreknowledge of this.
It could be worse?
Yes, I’m crying now.
I hope to at least hold you before I’m gone. But I don’t know, it’s starting to feel like I’m never getting to a hospital or if I do get there, it’ll be overrun like the others or it’ll be too late for me to still be me by the time they yank you out and plop you into the middle of this hopeless, hellish existence.
Yeah, I’m fun. Sorry. Things are kind of darkest right now, and I’ve always been a bit of a pessimist. Glass not full. No messing around with halves and halve-nots. Again, not my best joke.
Okay, now I’m gonna trust my gut. Or bladder. I’m going outside. I gotta pee.
Love you.
Sassafras and lullabies.
Rams
Josh says, “Is she, like, pregnant?”
Luis groans. “Guy. Doctor Who already said she was pregs.”
“Right, but it’s a shock seeing it, you know, right there, in your face.”
Natalie says, “Rams, it’s a shame you couldn’t save those two from turning into zombies. It’s so sad. Almost a tragedy.” She shuffles toward the group while looking past them at the dead man on the road.
Josh says, “We’re not zombies.”
Luis groans again. “Guy. You are the bad.”
Ramola says, “Please don’t encourage them. Josh and Luis, this is Natalie.”
They say, “Hey,” and both lazily raise a hand in quarter-hearted greeting.
For her own comfort as much as her friend’s, Ramola takes Natalie’s left hand, careful to not tug or pull, anything that would put pressure on her wounded forearm. Natalie’s skin is warm going on hot despite the autumn chill. A fever could mean she is infected or it could be a side effect of the vaccine, if she does in fact have a fever at all; Natalie has always claimed she runs a little hot.
“Your hand is cold,” Natalie says, challenging Ramola to say otherwise.
Ramola pulls her hand away and hides it in her coat pocket, in case it decides to tell the truth.
“Okay, what’s the plan? No fucking around.” Natalie recounts her inability to get through to 911 or the Ames Clinic, and Dr. Awolesi hasn’t responded to her texts.
The teens investigate the old man’s car, reporting both front tires are flat and the driver’s-side front rim is bent. Even if they could separate the two conjoined vehicles, the sedan isn’t drivable. Ramola chimes in to say the obvious; the ambulance isn’t going anywhere either.
The teens jog back to their roadside hiding spot for their bikes and backpacks.
Ramola stands in front of Natalie so they are face-to-face. Were the sun shining, she’d be completely engulfed by her friend’s shadow. She says, “You know what I’m going to ask.”
“I feel worse. It’s like the flu. I’m cold and hot at the same time. Light-headed. My arm kills. My head pounds. My throat burns.” Her voice is froggy and her skin is pale, wan, and purple and puffy under her eyes.
Despair swamps any and all thoughts of hope and reason. Ramola breaks eye contact and stares off into
