“I haven’t slept more than two hours at a time since.” His bloodshot eyes stare into mine. Neither of us moves. I feel like I should say something. It’s my turn to talk. But instead I picture Ryan’s eyes, the torment they reflected.

“I’d do just about anything to prevent anyone else from living through that.” His agony is palpable.

I nod because I understand and because I can’t find words to convey it.

He turns around in the driver’s seat, returning both hands to the wheel like there’s nothing left to say.

Emi opens the door, startling me. “Your room’s ready. Your mom’s already here.” She climbs in and slams the door behind her. She looks from her cameraman to me as if picking up on what just happened.

“This is going to be a big night for a lot of people in this city.” She readjusts the skirt of her dress and faces forward. “Let’s go.”

I reach for the van’s side door, but Emi cuts me off. “We’re going in the back way. More discreet.” Emi hits her cameraman’s arm, signaling him to drive. “National feed starts in thirty.”

I slump in the folding chair once again. “Where will you be?”

“Here. We’re broadcasting from another suite.”

“Good,” I say, wrapping my coat around me. “If I don’t like what I see, I’m busting in.”

Emi laughs. “I don’t doubt it.”

Chapter 31

CHAPTER 31

I inhale the Albuterol and Pulmicort mist and imagine it traveling down my throat into my damaged lungs—but not to heal them. My lungs are beyond repair. The meds are meant to sustain life, until my body decides the payoff isn’t worth the effort.

I was told Annie had the stronger lungs when we were born. I’ll never know why hers shut down while mine kept pumping in my weak, two-pound body.

“Looks like she’s on NBC,” my mom says, flipping through the stations. At one point, NBC cancelled an interview with my dad. Now Dateline gets to air Emi’s interview like they care about condemning criminals, exposing corruption.

Apparently if it yields high-enough ratings.

My mom and I sit on the king-sized bed, propped by pillows that would be comfortable if I weren’t so broken. Maybe I should be nervous about what Emi’s going to say in her interview. But as I watch the Botoxed broadcaster talk about a pet food recall, like what he’s saying is the most important thing anyone’s ever heard, I feel numb. My head rolls toward the coffee table littered with complimentary snacks: popcorn, cookies, assorted mixes, bottled water.

“Do you want something?” my mom asks. She doesn’t tell me I should eat or try to assess the damage. Beneath the eyeliner and mascara, her eyes are rimmed with red, making them look greener.