They all swung around to look at him in surprise. Without getting any closer, he pointed to the book and wrapper that now lay in a corner of the room.
Chris sprang into action. He had the catlike reflexes of someone who worked in live radio, dealing with the crazies and the obscenity spouters before their words got out on the airwaves and brought down a big fine from the FCC. He punched numbers into the phone and began shouting their address to the 9-1-1 operator. At the same time, he pressed the talk button, so Jim heard every word. “It’s sarin gas. Yes, sarin! In the KNWS studio! Hurry! It’s killing him! It’s killing Jim Fate!” Behind Chris, Willow took one look at Jim, her face a mask of fear, and turned and ran.
In the news tank, Greg and Bob backed away from the window. But in the screener’s booth, Aaron moved toward the door with an out-stretched hand. Jim staggered forward and held the door closed with his foot. His eyes met Aaron’s through the small rectangle of glass set in the door.
“Are you sure? Jim, come out of there!”
Jim knew Aaron was yelling, but the door filtered it into a low murmur, stripped of all urgency.
He couldn’t afford the breath it would take to speak, couldn’t afford to open his mouth in case he accidentally sucked in air again. His body was already demanding that he stop this nonsense and breathe. All he could do was shake his head, his lips clamped together.
Chris pressed the talk button again. “9-1-1 says they’re sending a special hazmat team. They should be here any second. They said they’re bringing oxygen.”
Jim made a sweeping motion with his hands, wordlessly ordering his coworkers to leave. His chest ached. Greg grabbed a board and a couple of microphones and left the news tank at a run, Bob on his heels. Aaron took one last look at Jim, his face contorted by fear and regret, and then left. A second later, the fire alarm began to sound, a low pulse muffled to near nothingness by the soundproof door.
Chris was the only one left, staring at Jim through the glass. The two of them had been together for years. Every morning Chris and Jim—and more recently Victoria—got in early and put the show together, scouring the newspaper, the Internet and TV clips for stories that would light up every single one of the lines. “I’m praying for you, man,” Chris said, then released the talk button. He gave Jim one more anguished look, and then turned and ran. Jim wished he could run away. But he couldn’t run away from what the poison had already done to him. Now the muscles in both arms and in the tops of his thighs were twitching. He was so tired. Why did he have to hold his breath again? Oh yes, poison.
When he looked back up, Victoria was in the screener’s room. She moved close to the glass, her wide dark eyes seeking out Jim’s. Angrily, he shook his head and motioned for her to go.
Victoria pressed the talk button. “They say there’s gas, but I don’t smell anything out here. The booth is practically airtight, anyway.”
Jim wanted to tell her that “practically” wasn’t the same as really and truly. It was the kind of argument they might have on air during a slow time, bantering to keep things moving along. But he didn’t have the breath for it.
A part of Jim’s brain remained coldly rational even as his body sent more and more messages that something was badly wrong, and that things were only getting worse. He had not breathed since that first fateful gulp of air when he opened the package. A vacuum was building up in his head and chest, a sucking hollowness, his body screaming at him, demanding that he give in and breathe.
But Jim hadn’t made it this far by giving in when things were tough. It had been a minute, a minute ten maybe, since he opened the package. But then he did give in to another hunger—the hunger for connection. He was all alone and he might be dying and he couldn’t stand that thought. Jim moved to the glass and put his hand up against the glass, fingers spread, a lonely starfish. And then Victoria mirrored it with her own hand, everything between them forgotten, their hands pressed against the glass.
There was a band around Jim’s chest, and it was tightening. An iron band. It was crushing him, crushing his lungs. His vision was dimming, but he kept his eyes open, his gaze never leaving Victoria. Their matching hands pressed on either side of the glass. They were just two human beings, reaching out for each other, but destined to never touch.
With her free hand, Victoria groped blindly for the talk button, found it. “Jim, you’ve got to hold on. I hear sirens. They’re almost here!”
But his body was ready to break with his will. It hadn’t even been two minutes yet, but he had to breathe. Had to. But maybe he could filter it, minimize it.