I stood, grabbed my coat. “Enjoy your wine.”
“Can we talk like adults?” he snapped.
“Adults don’t pull the rug out from under someone and then demand a calm tone.”
“I said I’m sorry.”
“With the same voice you use when the Wi-Fi’s out,” I replied, and walked out.
The cold air hit me like a slap, like it was trying to wake me up. Outside felt like a cruel joke—hearts in every window, couples everywhere, men holding flowers like trophies.
I couldn’t go home. Home was our apartment. My EMT book sat on the table. The calendar counted down to my final assessment.
So I walked. Because standing still felt like drowning.
My brain kept doing math. Two months left. No job. Jace paid most of the rent. I had savings—but not “surprise breakup” savings.
Then, halfway down the block, I heard it—a wet, awful wheeze—from an alley between a bar and a boutique.
At first, I assumed it was a drunk guy.
Then I saw him.
A man crumpled near a dumpster, convulsing.
People stood at the entrance of the alley, watching.
A woman covered her nose. “Oh my God, he smells.”
A man in a blazer muttered, “Don’t touch him. He probably has something.”
I looked around.
No one moved.
“CALL 911!” I shouted.
They just stared.
“CALL 911!” I yelled again.
A teenager fumbled with his phone. “Okay, okay!”
