off. It clanked against the road, disappearing into the darkness. I pulled the glue out and watched for the Papa to register contact with Bren’s skin again.
It began to beep loudly. Incredibly loudly. And fast. Maybe ten beeps per second. It could have been one continuous beep it was so fast.
On the Papa, I watched the digits flash. Bren’s heart rate was 164 and rising fast.
“Come on!” I shouted, wishing the knockout would work fast. Would it give him more than one? If anybody was really monitoring the Papas in one of the Admin buildings, they might notice Bren and send help. Sick with worry, trying to deny the guilt that was building in my stomach, I reached for Bren’s face.
“Bren. It’s gonna be okay. The knockout will help.” He was shaking worse now, so hard that his bones should have been splintering.
“Nik.” Bren’s voice was a croak, a sound squeezed through pain I didn’t want to imagine. This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening.
“Bren. I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” My throat tightened. A sob tore through me. I didn’t want to scare him worse, so I tried to keep the tears back. I failed. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it. This shouldn’t be happening.”
“Nik,” Bren said again, going suddenly still and focusing on me. All I could see around his pupils was white. “Nik.” His voice was a barely audible whisper.
I swallowed, trying to get control of myself. I leaned closer. “Bren. It’s gonna be okay. Somebody will come. I’m sorry.”
His left hand squeezed my hands tightly, bone-crushingly. “Bug.”
Then he screamed. His back arched up and his head slammed into the pavement of the street. It happened again, then a third time.
Terrified, totally paralyzed, I watched my friend. Should I hold him down? Would my Papa give him more knockout if I got it off me and onto his wrist?
Stupid. Nobody could get their Papas off.
Bren screamed again, his chest heaving. Lights went on in houses all along the street.
Suddenly he went still and totally silent. He was looking at me.
I leaned forward, hoping the knockout had finally worked. “Bren. It’ll be—”
I gagged, all the strength leaving my body. The whites of his eyes were gone, replaced by dark gray. Tiny dark streams of blood rolled down his face, pooling on the pavement. His chest didn’t move.
I sucked in a breath, trying to hold it back, but I couldn’t. I flung myself to the side and threw up.
Scrubbing my face with what I hoped was a clean part of my zip, I straightened. “Bren.” I slid closer on my knees. “Bren?” He didn’t move. “Please! No, Bren. Don’t! Please!” I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. Nothing. I don’t know everything I shouted at him, fear and grief making me jittery. I shook his shoulder again.
Bren didn’t move. “What do I do?” I asked the street, the night. “What do I do?” A memory from Fiz Ed of how to do CPR. “Bren! Please don’t die. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed and got control of myself. His shirt was covered in puke. I pulled it up so I could try getting to his chest and doing CPR. You were supposed to push the chest, try to get the heart started, right?
I reeled back, disbelief and guilt and horror mixing into a knot of sickness inside me. I tasted my vomit, needed to throw up again, needed to spit. I yelled instead. Bren’s chest was—was bleeding. It was as if the blood had pushed so hard at the inside of his skin that it had finally pushed its way through his pores. Blue lines marked his veins under his skin, all over his torso.
I heard doors opening down the street.
“What do I do?” I looked left, right, all around me. Bren was gone. The knockout had been too late. He would be found. People would be here in a minute.
I had to get out of here. If I stayed, I’d get in trouble. They’d think that I did it. Or at least that I’d been involved.
I was involved. I did do it. I couldn’t run away from my best friend.
I
It began to beep loudly. Incredibly loudly. And fast. Maybe ten beeps per second. It could have been one continuous beep it was so fast.
On the Papa, I watched the digits flash. Bren’s heart rate was 164 and rising fast.
“Come on!” I shouted, wishing the knockout would work fast. Would it give him more than one? If anybody was really monitoring the Papas in one of the Admin buildings, they might notice Bren and send help. Sick with worry, trying to deny the guilt that was building in my stomach, I reached for Bren’s face.
“Bren. It’s gonna be okay. The knockout will help.” He was shaking worse now, so hard that his bones should have been splintering.
“Nik.” Bren’s voice was a croak, a sound squeezed through pain I didn’t want to imagine. This couldn’t be happening. This could not be happening.
“Bren. I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” My throat tightened. A sob tore through me. I didn’t want to scare him worse, so I tried to keep the tears back. I failed. “I’m sorry. I don’t get it. This shouldn’t be happening.”
“Nik,” Bren said again, going suddenly still and focusing on me. All I could see around his pupils was white. “Nik.” His voice was a barely audible whisper.
I swallowed, trying to get control of myself. I leaned closer. “Bren. It’s gonna be okay. Somebody will come. I’m sorry.”
His left hand squeezed my hands tightly, bone-crushingly. “Bug.”
Then he screamed. His back arched up and his head slammed into the pavement of the street. It happened again, then a third time.
Terrified, totally paralyzed, I watched my friend. Should I hold him down? Would my Papa give him more knockout if I got it off me and onto his wrist?
Stupid. Nobody could get their Papas off.
Bren screamed again, his chest heaving. Lights went on in houses all along the street.
Suddenly he went still and totally silent. He was looking at me.
I leaned forward, hoping the knockout had finally worked. “Bren. It’ll be—”
I gagged, all the strength leaving my body. The whites of his eyes were gone, replaced by dark gray. Tiny dark streams of blood rolled down his face, pooling on the pavement. His chest didn’t move.
I sucked in a breath, trying to hold it back, but I couldn’t. I flung myself to the side and threw up.
Scrubbing my face with what I hoped was a clean part of my zip, I straightened. “Bren.” I slid closer on my knees. “Bren?” He didn’t move. “Please! No, Bren. Don’t! Please!” I grabbed his shoulder, shaking him. Nothing. I don’t know everything I shouted at him, fear and grief making me jittery. I shook his shoulder again.
Bren didn’t move. “What do I do?” I asked the street, the night. “What do I do?” A memory from Fiz Ed of how to do CPR. “Bren! Please don’t die. I’m sorry.”
I swallowed and got control of myself. His shirt was covered in puke. I pulled it up so I could try getting to his chest and doing CPR. You were supposed to push the chest, try to get the heart started, right?
I reeled back, disbelief and guilt and horror mixing into a knot of sickness inside me. I tasted my vomit, needed to throw up again, needed to spit. I yelled instead. Bren’s chest was—was bleeding. It was as if the blood had pushed so hard at the inside of his skin that it had finally pushed its way through his pores. Blue lines marked his veins under his skin, all over his torso.
I heard doors opening down the street.
“What do I do?” I looked left, right, all around me. Bren was gone. The knockout had been too late. He would be found. People would be here in a minute.
I had to get out of here. If I stayed, I’d get in trouble. They’d think that I did it. Or at least that I’d been involved.
I was involved. I did do it. I couldn’t run away from my best friend.
I
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