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Paul catches my eye—he’s forgotten, in his fear and grief, to be suspicious of me—and we share a helpless glance.

“We will give him a medication through his IV to help push off fluid, before and after the transfusion,” Dr. K continues.

“This may help protect his lungs.”

She sighs heavily, her eyes on Jacob’s face. This is probably an awful case for her. People in the ICU should be eighty-year-olds

with cancer and heart disease and diabetes, not twenty-three-year-olds who were previously in perfect health.

“His situation remains very critical,” Dr. K finishes quietly. “Do either of you have any questions for me?”

Paul hesitates, so I jump in. This may be the only chance I have to get any information.

“You said—” My voice is thin and hoarse. I clear my throat and try again. “You said one of these medicines is to keep his

blood pressure up?” I wave a hand at the IV bag she pointed out.

She nods. “Yes. It’s called a pressor.”

“But...” I lick my lips. “That machine says his blood pressure is ninety-two over fifty, doesn’t it?” I Googled “heart

rate monitors” last night, and I know a normal blood pressure is something like one-twenty over eighty. “That’s still low,

isn’t it?”

“It is,” she confirms. “Quite low.”

“So... can’t you increase the medicine to make it better?”

Her mouth tightens. “Unfortunately, that medicine is already maxed out.”

I swallow this news down. The urge to reach out and grab Jacob’s hand again is almost overwhelming. “And do you think—is there

a chance he has a brain injury?”

Paul flinches. Like me, I’m guessing he hadn’t thought about brain injuries yet.

Dr. K considers her words carefully before speaking. “Unfortunately, we won’t know until he wakes up. We did a scan of his

brain when he came in, and another yesterday when his heart rate dipped, and neither showed any sign of swelling or bleeding

within the brain. But we won’t know for sure until he wakes up.”

“You said one of these medicines is a sedative, too?” I press. “It’s... keeping him out of it?”

She nods.

I swallow hard. “So he’s not—in pain?”

As soon as the question leaves my lips, I realize it sounds too personal, too intimate, not at all the type of question an

acquaintance would ask. But Dr. K’s expression doesn’t waver.

“There’s no reason to believe he’s in any pain right now, no.”

She waits patiently while I frown at the bed, trying to think what else I can ask. My eyes catch on the bare skin above his

casted leg, and another question slips out. “Should he have a blanket over him? He’s usually—he’s always cold.”

Paul snaps out of his daze. “No, he isn’t,” he says.

It hurts so much, it takes my breath away. I’m not sure why. In the grand scheme of things, it shouldn’t matter. But the way

he says it, like I’m such an idiot, like he knows Jacob so much better than I do. And maybe they talk on the phone a couple

times a month, but it’s always Paul talking at Jacob, not the other way around. How would he know that Jacob always sleeps

with two extra blankets on top of the comforter? How would he know that Jacob always brings a hoodie when he goes out, even

in the middle of summer?

Dr. K’s expression remains calm and pleasant. “Either way, it would be good for him to be covered up, yes. His skin is a little

cold. I’ll have the nurses bring some warm blankets in.”

She smiles at Paul and then at me, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but I think there’s an extra twinkle in her eyes when she meets my gaze. I give her a small, grateful smile in return.

“Do you have any other questions for me?” she asks.

“What are his chances, really?” Paul asks. “Give it to me straight.”

The words are harsher than his tone, and I remind myself that for all his bluster, he’s probably just as scared as I am. Dr.

K’s smile is apologetic.

“I wish I could answer that, but I’m afraid it’s not something we can put into numbers. We’re doing everything we can. For

now, we can only take things day by day.”

Paul doesn’t seem thrilled by the answer, but he nods grudgingly. “Thank you.”

“Yeah, thanks,” I add quietly.

“Of course.” Dr. K smiles again and then slips out of the room.

Paul and I are left in awkward silence. My hand twitches. I almost reach out for Jacob’s hand again before I check myself.

“That was a good question, about the brain injury,” Paul says finally, surprising me. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

His tone is a bit hollow, and I feel a sudden wave of empathy for him. He may not be perfect, Paul, but he’s here, isn’t he?

And he’s scared of losing Jacob, just like I am.

The door slides open again and Jacob’s parents step in. They both look surprised to see me.

Reluctantly, I rise to my feet. “I was just leaving.”

His dad nods, already moving past me to his son, but his mother lingers.

“What was your name again, dear?” she asks.

I swallow. “Travis Keeping.”

“Travis.” She nods. “It’s nice of you to visit again. You’re a good friend.”

She smiles at me, but I can hardly look at her, I’m so ashamed. Both of Jacob’s parents have been nothing but supportive of

him. They’ve poured buckets of money into his career and have flown all over the world to cheer him on at his races. But he’s

never, ever told them he’s bisexual. The few times I asked him about it, he got irritated or changed the topic. The most he

ever said was that it “wouldn’t be worth the headache.” And I never pressed him on it. It would have felt a bit hypocritical.

After all, I never told my dad I was gay.

Now, I wish I’d pushed him a little harder.

“Thanks,” I mumble. “Sorry.”

I step outside the room and slide the door closed behind me. My limbs are so heavy, I think I might sink through the ground.

I’m so out of it, I take a wrong turn on my way to the waiting room. I’m looking around, trying to get my bearings, when someone

calls my name.

“Travis Keeping?”

I turn. I know this man. Not his name or his face, but I know who he is. He isn’t wearing a press tag, but the eager look

in his eyes is so out of place here, he can only be a reporter.

“Yes,” I say warily.

“Ryan Simmons, Daily Post .” He sticks his hand out, but I just stare at him.

“I don’t think press are allowed back here,” I say, looking around for a nurse.

“Antony Costa’s family agreed to an interview,” he says. “I was just looking for the way out...”

He feigns looking around, and I just know he’s looking for Jacob’s room. And Antony’s family may have agreed to an interview, but Jacob’s family sure as hell didn’t.

“I can show you the way out,” I say coolly, and walk toward the waiting room without giving him time to argue.

“So, what are you doing here, then?” he says as we walk. “Visiting Nichols?”

There’s absolutely no suspicion in his tone, but my stupid brain goes from zero to panic in half a second. “Costa and Nichols,”

I say. “Both of them. Just... offering support to their families, from the F1 drivers.”

“Antony’s family didn’t mention,” he says. “I did ask, if anyone had reached out—”

“I haven’t been there yet,” I say irritably. “I went to Nichols’ room first. I’m headed to Costa’s now.”

“Ah.” He nods. “I see.”

We’ve reached the waiting room. I pull the door open for him expectantly.

“Well, thanks, mate,” the guy says.

I close the door behind him and mutter to myself, “I’m not your mate.”

But now, I think I have no choice but to go visit Antony Costa. What if the reporter comes back and asks his family about

it?

I know I’m being paranoid, but I can’t help it. It’s like my default setting nowadays.

The ward clerk gives me his room number, 907, and I drag my feet there. I’m dreading every second of it, but when I nervously

slide open the frosted glass door, I find something like a party going on inside. There are cards and balloons and about fifteen

people crammed into the room. In the middle of all of it is Antony Costa, sitting up in his hospital bed looking weak but

conscious.

“Travis Keeping!” A girl no older than ten squeals my name. “Pedro, look! It’s Travis Keeping!”

An even younger boy spins around and gapes at me. A pretty, middle-aged woman beside him turns toward me.

“Well, hello!” she says brightly. “I recognize you from the TV. You’re that Formula 1 driver!”

“Yes, ma’am,” I mumble. “I was just... passing by. I thought I’d come visit.”

“Hey, man,” Antony says. He looks very surprised to see me—which makes sense, since I’ve spoken to him maybe once in my life—but

not unhappy. His voice is hoarse but pleasant, and although he has a few IVs running fluids into him, he looks a hell of a

lot healthier than Jacob.

I open my mouth, not sure what I’m going to say, but it turns out, with Antony’s family, I have to say absolutely nothing.

The two kids start talking rapidly about Formula 1, asking me a hundred questions without stopping for breath, Antony’s father

offers me some coffee, and his mother squints at me, pronounces me “Too thin!” and sends two of Antony’s cousins running off

to the nurse’s station to bring back some of the homemade food they brought in for the staff. Before I know it, I’ve been

pushed into a chair with a steaming cup of coffee and a plate of Brazilian truffles called brigadeiro.

“You look tired,” Antony’s mother chastises me. “Are you sleeping enough?”

Antony laughs. “Leave him alone, Mom.”

“Nonsense,” she says briskly. She waves her hand at the young girl who squealed my name when I came in. “Quinn, give him some

more food.”

“Shouldn’t you be training or something?” Antony asks me, while Quinn eagerly piles more food onto my paper plate.

Probably I should come up with some excuse, but for some reason I can’t lie to him. I think he’s reminding me too much of Jacob. Instead I just shrug and say, “Should be.”

Antony gives me a swift, searching look, but luckily he’s distracted by his grandmother’s arrival. She comes bearing more

food and a vase of flowers.

“You can’t have flowers up here, avó, the nurses told you that,” Antony chastises her halfheartedly.

“Ah, you will be downstairs tomorrow,” she says, waving him off.

“He’s being moved out of the ICU,” his mother says proudly, before I even have to ask. Her face sobers for a moment, and she

puts a sudden, unexpected hand on my shoulder. “Did you know the boy who passed away? Ellis?”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am.”

“Ah.” She closes her eyes and touches a silver cross hanging from her neck. “God keep his soul. It is too awful.”

“How’s Jacob?” Antony asks me. “Is he okay?”

There’s something in his tone, something a lot like guilt. Antony was trying to overtake Jacob when they crashed, I remember.

But even I know it isn’t his fault.

“He’s still critical,” I say.

Fear skitters over his face, but in an instant, his mother is by his side, clutching his hand. “We’ll pray for that boy. It

was a terrible accident. No one’s fault.”

“Yeah,” I say quietly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Antony’s mom shoots me a swift, approving look. Then she strokes Antony’s hair and kisses his forehead, and I busy myself

signing autographs for the kids while Antony clears his throat a few times.

“Are you good friends with the other boy, Jacob?” Antony’s mother asks me.

I open my mouth to lie, but instead part of the truth slips out. “We’re friends, yeah,” I mumble.

“They’re really tight,” Antony tells his mother. “Jacob’s always talking him up.”

It’s probably the nicest thing I’ve heard since the crash. A lump forms in my throat, sudden and painful. Antony’s mother

makes it ten times worse by swooping in to give me a tight hug.

“Poor darling,” she says. “You need anything, you come to us, yes?”

She holds my face between her palms until I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good.” She nods. “Now come with me, help me get the rest of the food out of the car.”

“Mom,” Antony protests. “He’s got things to do, don’t make him help.”

But I don’t mind. I follow Antony’s mother out through the waiting room and into the elevator, and the whole time she talks

nonstop about how she’s always been terrified something like this would happen, and how awful it must be for Ellis Parrot’s

parents. It should be hard to hear, but the whole time she has her arm wrapped tightly around mine, and it’s like she’s holding

me together, holding me up.

“That other boy is going to be okay, too,” she tells me, as we get back onto the elevator with our arms full of Tupperware.

“I just know it.”

Then she starts talking about Brazilian desserts, and how have I never tried them before, and what on earth have I been eating instead?

She doesn’t seem to expect an answer, as if she knows it’s just the rhythm of her voice that’s helping me.

She holds on to my arm again, and I hold on to her hopeful words.

When we get back to the room, she releases me and swoops in to give Antony a hug.

“I love you,” she says firmly, kissing his cheek.

Antony looks slightly embarrassed, but he hugs her back just as tightly. “Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Love you, too.”

Hearing the words physically hurts, like someone’s clamped a vise around my chest. Antony’s family tries to offer me more

food, but I back away from them, my voice growing thin. “No, sorry, I have to go now, really.”

“You come back again soon, yes?” Mrs. Costa says.

“Promise?” Antony’s little cousin, Pedro, adds.

“Yes,” I croak. “I promise.”

I escape to the staff bathroom again, but this time, although my throat is aching terribly, the tears won’t come. I grip the

edge of the sink and take shallow, unsteady breaths. Mrs. Costa’s words are spinning through my mind.

I love you, I love you, I love you.