The Ward

34


1:30 P.M., SUNDAY


I’m left alone with Callum’s head resting on my lap and a pool of blood beside us. When I tell myself to breathe, I can hear my insides as they rattle apart. Slowly, I rise to my knees.

I haven’t forgotten what’s in my back pocket. . . .

But what do I do?

I reach around, keeping my legs bent just enough so Callum’s head doesn’t slide.

Then, I take out the vial.

My hands shake—Don’t drop it—but that just makes me tremble more. So I force another breath of air in and out, and wait until I’m steady. My fingers hug the tube, red-stained, but I try to ignore that. Inside, the water looks inconsequential.

But the water would fix him.

What do I do?

On the floor in front of me: Callum Pace. Someone I hardly know.

I lower back onto my heels, find myself wishing I knew him better, this boy whose head is sitting in my lap. I brush a few shaggy, brown strands out of his eyes, and end up smearing his forehead with blood.

In my other hand I hold the vial. Aven’s vial. So one day we can walk outside together on Mad Ave. Or visit a roof garden. It’s for our futures together. Our microscopic futures, important to no one but ourselves.

If Aven lives, nothing changes.

But if Callum lives . . . If Callum lives, so much could change. Everything.

Derek said the water would keep the poison from working, and Callum knows how to make the real cure. . . . Plus, we’ve got my blood.

We would figure out how to stop the governor, together. Get the real cure to everyone. First, tonight. Before the squadrons fly through. We’d have to find more water, but we could do it. We could end the Blight. And it’s only even remotely possible if Callum is alive.

My sister.

Callum.

Two lives, one hand.

My mind can’t piece it together, this choice—it rips my core in half. I look around the room, as if I’ll find an answer hiding in the shadows, but I’m only reminded of how alone I am in this. Not even Aven can help me now.

This is not a decision I can make.

Of course . . . if Derek’s right—Callum is already gone. There’s no more choice. It’s just Aven.

Is it sick that part of me hopes he’s right? For fate to leave me with one card and pull away the rest?

It’s time.

I reach for his wrist to feel for a pulse. It’s not a choice until there’s a pulse. I’m scared of hurting him, so I rotate his palm carefully and place two fingers on his vein. Though I’ve done it before, it’s never been like this. All that learning means nothing, not when my own racing heartbeat makes it almost impossible to check for someone else’s.

I wait for some movement through his veins, but all I feel is the hammer of my own heart.

Focus. Breathe. Focus.

I try again. Two fingers on the vein. I wait, and I wait, and then, after seconds of no movement—

The slight bump-bump . . . I feel it.

My heart’s got no clue where to go—it rises up into my throat, it barrels down my chest. Relief don’t feel like this. But neither does remorse. More salt water beads up behind my eyes.

I’m ashamed of myself, but this choice . . . it’s too much. I can’t do it.

The room begins to spin, hard and fast.

When I blink, everything dims and my stomach heaves. I’m going to retch. I gasp for air, but I can’t hear the sounds I make. Just a white, static rush between my ears.

I wish I’d never found the water.

I can’t do this. . . . I can’t leave Callum to die.

But I can’t give up on Aven either. Not when I’m so close.

In my head I hear the governor: My wife is the only person I would kill for. Hours ago, I asked myself if I would do the same for Aven. Now I have an answer.

Hating every cell in my body for what I’m about to do, I begin to remove my hand from Callum’s side. It’s doused. The blood is hot, burns worse than if it were on fire. I move my palm in millimeters, reaching across his body—for a moment, the vial presses against his cheek.

Even more red, now. There’s so much of it. . . .

I ease away, release the pressure from Callum’s muscles. The hole in his flesh gets wider.

But so many people could be saved. The girl in the contagious ward, with hair bright like Aven’s—

More and more red. I don’t know when it will stop. I watch and wonder, anxious. Unable to take my eyes away, unable to get that girl out of my mind.

She’s not my Aven. She’s a stranger. They all are. And who decided that life was a numbers game? What if some people deserve life more than others? People like Aven. She deserves it more than anyone I know, and I’d rather have one of her than hundreds of strangers.

That girl ain’t my Aven, but she is somebody else’s Aven.

My eyes flood up with that thought and I keep ripping. Splitting in two.

And then, he breathes.

A groan, barely audible, so airy it’s lost right away. Almost too quiet for me to hear. Almost. I shake my vision clear and look down to meet his eyes, like I should.

Except he’s not looking at me. I follow his gaze. His eyes are barely open, just a sliver of blue there. He’s looking at the vial.

“For Aven,” he whispers, and I choke.

He understands. . . . He understands. He’s ready to let me give it to someone else. A girl he don’t even know. She’s not a genius, and she can’t develop miracle serums. So why? I don’t understand—it wouldn’t even be selfish for him to want it for himself.

His life equals many lives.

It strikes me hard—Aven would do the same thing. Callum isn’t her, not by a long shot, but . . . The Ward needs more people like Aven. And here I am, ready to leave him to die. The horror of it is a bullet to my chest.

I unstopper the vial—

How much do I use? Split it in thirds, that’s what I’ll do. A third on the wound, a third over his broken bones, and the last third he can drink. Hope the serum works better—and faster—than what I gave Aven.

“Here goes,” I mutter, ripping his shirt to expose the slit along his abs. I use the cloth to wipe away what I can of the blood, and hold the vial over the wound. I make sure to pour it deep.

Next I move to reset the bones in his arms. “This may hurt like hell,” I warn, but he’s gone unconscious again and can’t have heard me. Still, the sound of my own voice helps keep me sane, so on I talk. “Emergency first aid. Never had to use it on myself, which is why the Blues taught us, but it’s sure going to come in handy right about now.”

I lift the left arm, snap it back into its rightful position.

His face contorts, he groans louder now, but I keep going. Right arm, right leg, left leg, until it’s time to apply the serum locally.

I pull off his black leather shoes first, then I undo the fancy buckle around his waist. Lifting him up, I start to remove his trousers, making sure the boxers stay on. The pants get caught at his knees and so I lower him, sliding them the rest of the way. At the sight of his bare legs, I blush and look away.

Shirt. He’s in no condition to be moved, so I decide to rip off his shirtsleeves. Using the knife I keep strapped in my boot, I slice off one, then the other, exposing long lines of muscle in his arms. I raise a brow, somewhat surprised, and rush to add more drops onto each.

“I’ve saved the last of it for you to drink, okay?” I don’t expect a reply; I just lift his head and bring the vial to his lips.

His blue eyes watch me from my lap. I see his brows twinge—he’s confused. He doesn’t understand why the vial is over his mouth, and not Aven’s.

In that instant my guilt is a twisting knife. Only his goodness, his confusion, reminds me I must be doing the right thing. “It’s for you now,” I tell him, and feel my eyes turn wet. I leave it at that—he’s in no shape to hear, or understand, why I’m doing this.

I tip the vial over his mouth again—he tries to swallow. I watch his throat move, but he coughs, and blood trails from his mouth. I pull away, wait for the spasm to end. Once more, I tilt the vial. I pour the serum. I make sure every last drop finds its way down.

Too soon, it’s gone. “And now we wait,” I whisper, eyes glued to the empty glass as Callum drifts off into a fitful rest.

I continue to hold his head in my lap, brushing away his hair. I used to do this to Aven—my breath catches at that, and the candle flickers, yes.

With that comes the tidal, catastrophic truth: I’ve exchanged the two. Callum for Aven.

How could you?

Fat tears begin to brim over, and the lump in my throat is a brick I don’t know how to swallow. Callum, a boy I hardly know. I choke on the brick, try for air. Palm to forehead, palm to forehead, I run my fingers over the scalp and all the way down—I don’t stop. It’s automatic. I even find myself searching behind the neck for that spot that always seemed to be growing larger. The lump.

I don’t find it. And the ears, too low. The strands of hair stop short too soon. My fingers tangle free too early. This is hearing your favorite story—the one you know by memory, you’ve heard it a hundred times—suddenly end differently.

I don’t stop. Over and over, I shock myself on every different ending. And when I close my eyes to the shadows, try to lose sense of it in the dark, I can’t. I can’t even pretend I haven’t done this.