It took my brain a second to catch up. I shoved the head nuzzling my shoulder. "What pill kicking in?"
"The... the Viagra you gave me. I'm hot and cold all over. Everything hurts."
I kicked Zane clean off the bed, face burning. "Did the fever cook your brain?! Where would I even get Viagra? You'd believe anything I told you!"
Zane sat on the floor, eyes glazed for a long moment, cheeks blazing red, lips drained white. He wasn't lucid anymore—just kept mumbling my name. I'd never seen him this sick in my life. I thought of those news stories—people running high fevers, slipping into comas, not coming back—and panic set in fast.
"Lie down right now. I'm calling my mom!"
He managed a weak "mm-hm," then hauled himself upright with all the coordination of a newborn giraffe, every limb moving on the same side, and toppled face-first into my pillow.
I called my mom four, five times. Nothing. Straight to voicemail every time. After a minute of agonizing, I dialed 911.
In the ambulance, Zane gripped my hand and wouldn't let go.
"Zo, am I gonna die?"
"No."
"Zo, will you stay with me?"
"Yes—yes—yes."
"Zo, there's so much I still haven't told you—"
"Shut up and breathe!"
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