I want to ask him where he’s been. Why didn’t he try to explain himself after my mom’s accusations? Did he have anything to do with my father’s death? Because his disappearance seemed to confirm that he did. But all of it seems futile with Adam clinging to life, bleeding in the middle of a dark, dingy alley. This can’t be the way Adam dies. Adam would be appalled by this alley. The way his hair is caked with red and matted to his head. On his birthday.

“This is my fault.” I choke on the words. All the things Adam did to help me: the search aggregator, the pictures we found on his account, the digging around.

Ryan grabs the inhaler dangling from my hand and puts it in my bag. “Don’t.”

“If he dies . . .”

“He won’t.” It’s an empty promise. There’s doubt in his voice. Both of us know Adam won’t survive.

Sirens howl in the distance.

“I’m sorry, Lia.” The apology is halting. I look at him, wondering what he’s apologizing for, exactly—Adam, my dad, leaving me, knowing me. Either way, he’s about to disappear again. And as much as I’ve wanted him around, right now, I don’t care.

I brush away a chunk of hair stuck to Adam’s forehead. He doesn’t move. His stillness is terrifying.

Red lights flash against the brick alleyway. Somewhere near the street, car doors open. Footsteps rush into the alley. A radio dispatch muffles something as two guys with a gurney hurry our way.

One paramedic, the younger of the two, makes eye contact with Ryan as he steps back. The EMT pauses a fraction of a second before kneeling down next to Adam. His partner checks Adam’s vitals. I’m brushed aside while they strap a neck brace around him. They roll Adam’s limp body onto the gurney.

“Are you hurt?” the younger EMT asks, shining a light into my eyes.

I shake my head. “Just him. He . . .” My voice catches. I stare at Adam’s face. I don’t even recognize him.

“She has asthma. She needs oxygen,” Ryan says, sounding cold, sterile. I swear I detect a trace of underlying desperation.

The EMT glances at Ryan. They seem to have an exchange in the few seconds they look at each other before the EMT turns back to me. A muffled voice says something on the dispatch attached to the EMT’s shoulder.

The EMT puts his hand on my arm. “We’re going to take you and your friend to a hospital.” He has a black circular tattoo on his forearm. “The police will be here in less than thirty seconds,” he adds.

It’s an awkward thing for him to say. The EMT’s eyes once again flicker to Ryan.