Prodigal Blues

"No, this is a helluva lot more than just exhaustion, it has to be"—then I remembered what she'd said back at the truck stop:  Probably need a shot—I should check my blood sugar just to be—

"Her insulin," I said.  "When's the last time she had a shot?"

Arnold and Christopher looked at each other, and I knew before either of them even shook their heads that they had no idea.

…sometimes I get so busy with them I forget to take my own medicine, and that's not good…

"Get her insulin kit," I shouted.  "Christ only knows how long she's needed it."

Arnold looked around frantically.  "Where's it at?"

"Find it!"

"If I knew where she kept it—"

I took a deep breath and swallowed my own panic before it had a chance to get out of the gate.  "In her cooler, the little one that she carries with"—and then a terrible thing occurred to me.  "Oh, no…"

Christopher and Arnold both froze.

For one second I was so stu

"What?" shouted Christopher, definitely closer to hysteria now.  "What is it?"

I closed my eyes and thought about saying a prayer.  "The refrigerator."

"What?"

"The refrigerator back in the motel room.  Did anyone see Rebecca take her cooler out of the refrigerator back in the motel room?"

I didn't have to open my eyes to see their faces; I knew.  As Christopher had been pushing me out the door, I'd known we were forgetting something, I just couldn't say what.

I opened my eyes.  Rebecca's pulse and breathing were even slower.  I decided a quick prayer was in order, after all.  "Please God, tell me that you guys have an extra insulin kit stashed in one of the drug cases."

After a moment of silence where I swear I could hear all the cells in our bodies jumping up and down and pulling out their hair while yelling "shit, Shit, SHIT !" at the top of their lungs, Arnold shook his head.  "She never… she never trusted us with any of her medicine.  Said we'd forget our heads if they weren't screwed on."  His lower lip trembled.  "She carried all of it in that cooler of hers."

"All of it?  Everything?'

"Everything!" snapped Christopher, his voice breaking on the last syllable.  He reached out an unsteady hand to brush away some hair from her face.  "Oh, God…."  It was at this moment that I realized how deeply he loved all of them; a father standing over his child's deathbed could not have been more wracked with sorrow and grief and helplessness.  It was the first moment of genuine vulnerability I'd seen in him.  He had not pla

I released my breath, pulled in another, slower one.  "Guys, we have to get her to a hospital."

"No!"  Christopher was screaming now.  "We're not taking her to any goddamn place where they're going to stick her with things and s-strap her down on a t-table and put her under… under b-b-bright l-lights and… and…"

I reached out and grabbed his arm, squeezing it as hard as I could.  "Calm down, buddy.  Listen to—look at me.  Look at me!  That's right, now take a deep breath, pal, that's it.  Now, listen to me, Christopher—listen:  if we don't get her some medical attention, and fast, she's going to go into a full-blown coma and will quite probably die, and she's come too far and been through too much for us to allow that to happen, got me?"

He nodded his head but said nothing; tears spattered from his eyes onto my sleeve.

"Give me the cell phone."

He reached into his pocket and pulled it out, flipped it open, and handed it to me.

I punched in 911.  The emergency operator answered before the first ring was completed.

"Emergen—"

That was all she got out before the phone fizzled.  I jerked it away from my face, glared at it like that would coerce it into cooperating, then shook it just because I was. So.  Fucking.  Angry.

"Oh, this ain't happening," said Arnold.  "Uh-huh, not now, not now, not when we're so close!"

I tried the phone again, but its charge was a fond memory.  "It's gone."

Arnold took it from my hand, shook it once, held it to his ear.  "Don't those emergency operators call right back if there's a hang-up?"

Christopher yanked the phone away.  "And how the fuck are we supposed to answer?"

I held up my hand.  "Knock it off, guys—look, we're screwed as far as the phone goes.  Christopher, you need to get us rolling and I mean right the hell now!  Go on!  Go!"

He climbed into the front seat and fired up the engine.

"You got an idea?" asked Arnold.  "Please tell me you got an idea, college man."

"Bring up the route map on the computer as quick as you can."

Christopher pulled back onto the highway so fast the tires squealed and even left a smoke trail; no small feat, considering what we were hauling; Arnold woke the computer and called up the map; I tried mouth-to-mouth on Rebecca once again because I couldn't just sit there and do nothing.

Arnold asked me, "What now?"

"Grendel's got every other thing marked on there, he's gotta have some hospitals—for chrissakes he grabbed Thomas in an emergency room, you can't tell me he doesn't have a few locations bookmarked."

Arnold stared at the screen.  "I, uh…"

"What?"

He made two fists and slammed them against his forehead.  "I don't remember where we are."

"Just outside of Fort Wayne, Indiana," shouted Christopher.

Arnold took a deep breath and steadied himself.  "All right.  Gimme the next exit number."

"112, one mile."

"I-69 North, right?'

"What?"

"We're on I-69 North, right?"

"I guess—"

"—the fuck do you mean, you guess?—"

"—mean… I mean yes, yeah—I-69 North."

"How far to exit 112?"

"It's right ahead!" shouted Christopher, triumphant.

"Floor this bad boy, big brother—we need exit 116."

"Shit!"

Christopher floored it.  The drive between exits 112 and 113 took about seven years, give or take a month.  Rebecca's body heat kept fading.  I propped up her legs and covered her with the blanket, my coat, Arnold's coat, then, finally, my own body.

"Exit 116, Christopher."

"I got it!  What's the map say, how far?"

Arnold did some quick scrolling, double-checked what he found.  "Five miles from 113."

"Hang on."  He shifted gears and kicked us into a higher and much harder speed.

Rebecca's breathing was so slow it was almost nonexistent; but I still kept up the mouth-to-mouth; these guys had it together, they were back in control of themselves, they were a unit, I'd just be in the way.

"C'mon, honey," I whispered to her still, chill form.  "Can't do this to us now, you haven't seen me do my Tommy Lee Jones routine yet."  I touched her forehead, her cheek, felt for a pulse.  Going… going… going…

"Three miles!" shouted Christopher.

Outside, the world was a messy blur.  We were flying.  I hoped Christopher could keep a solid grip on the wheel; one slip and this whole mess would jackknife like nobody's business and we'd be a messier blur than the world whizzing past.  Probably leave a nastier stain, too.