3:54 P.M.
Grace Busby tries to lift her mom, but it’s like trying to pick up a rag doll that weighs a hundred and thirty pounds. Grabbing her mom’s wrists instead, Grace starts to drag her away. She curls her shoulders and tucks her head, hoping to provide less of a target.
She won’t think about how pulling her mom over the linoleum is easier than it should be. Because of the blood.
Lately, Grace has seen a lot of blood. Most of it her own, filling up test tube after test tube. The doctors made a hole in her chest, about where her mom’s is, only Grace’s has a plastic cap over it.
A guy in a green apron runs up to her. His name tag reads JAVIER. “You have to leave her.” He pulls at one of Grace’s arms. “She’s dead.”
“But she’s my mom.” The woman Grace is dragging doesn’t look like her mom, though. Not with her hair dyed dark, and her skin so pale. Her eyes and her mouth are both half-open. Neither of them moving.
“You can’t help her.”
“I can’t leave her.” Past Javier’s shoulder, she sees a middle-aged guy in a business suit fall to his knees. He’s clutching his neck with both hands, but red pulses out between his fingers.
“Your mother would not want you to die.” He grabs Grace’s wrist. “Now come!”
She stumbles after him.