The heat from his body seemed to seep into mine, and I tried to push all my own fears and worries aside to be present for him.

Slowly, I inhaled, making it exaggerated so he could follow. His eyes flickered down to my lips. He hesitated, then shakily mirrored me, his grip on my waist tightening slightly.

His face was pale, but I could tell he was trying to focus.

I reached up and smoothed his hair back from his forehead. “Deep breaths. In through your nose, out through your mouth.”

He was rigid beneath me, but his breathing slowed just a fraction. I reached for his hand and laced our fingers together.

“What’s the square root of 81?”

He blinked, clearly caught off guard by the simplicity of the question. “Nine,” he whispered, but his voice was still shaky, his words coming out like they were coated in a fog.

“How many continents are there?”

He exhaled. “Seven.”

“Who’s the president of the United States?”

“Bill Clinton.”

I nodded. “What’s the capital of France?”

“Paris,” he said, a little more confident now.

“That’s right,” I said, my voice calm. “What color is my shirt?”

His eyes flickered down. “White.”

There was another loud crash from the kitchen, followed by Jamal shouting, “You can’t hate me! Everybody loves me!” and Tiffany yelling, “Not when you eat the last brownie, asshole!”

Blake’s hand moved up, gripping the fabric of my shirt like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His breathing was still uneven, but it wasn’t as frantic as before.

“What’s your favorite book?” I asked.

I could see him thinking. “The Catcher in the Rye.”

“Now, what’s your favorite color?”

His grip on my hand tightened slightly.

Time seemed to stretch as he stared at me.

“Blue,” he said finally, quieter this time.

“And how old are you?”

“Seventeen.”

“See? You’re still here. Still Blake.” I smiled, even though I was still terrified. “You’re doing great. Keep breathing.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly, he relaxed, resting his forehead against my shoulder.

His voice came out quiet, strained. “Beverly.”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m high now.”

I patted his head. “Yeah,” I laughed softly, “I think you are.”

He let out a long breath and buried his face in my neck.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice soft and laced with guilt.

“Blake, you have nothing to be sorry for,” I said, my voice low and steady, though I felt like I might fall apart at any second. “You didn’t choose this. It’s okay. Just keep breathing.”

My heart hammered against my ribs as I shifted in Blake’s lap, trying to balance between giving him space and holding onto him. His grip on my waist tightened, his fingers pressing into me just enough to make my skin burn beneath the fabric of my shirt.