I will not take no for an answer today.
I can’t stay here and do nothing anymore.
I won’t.
If Matthew’s mom can find her way across the city to look for her son, I can do the same to find my mom. Nurse Cathy and Miriam and the newspapers made it seem impossible to find people, but there has to be a way. First I have to get out of here. So my mom doesn’t get lost like Matthew.
I round several corners and end up in a hallway like the one I waited in when I got here. My skin pulsing with heat and fever and fear. It seems like years ago. I wade through the muddled masses of cots and people. I can’t help but see their burnt, dirty faces. Their arms and legs scratched and torn. They are bruised and broken. They cry. Bleed. Groan.
I was here. I was this.
I study every person I pass. Because what if my mom is here? What if Leo is here? Or my friends? Is this where I should start my search?
A doctor bumps my shoulder as he navigates a teen girl on a stretcher through the crowd. She grits her teeth in pain. Her eyes dart. I sense her fear. I remember my own when I waited here, not knowing anyone. Not knowing if I was okay. Convinced hospitals are where people go to die so it must be my turn. But I made it because of Nurse Cathy and the man with the big hands and the calm voice and Doctor Patel. And me. Because of that, I’m okay and my room belongs to someone else now. Maybe this girl will go to a room like the one I had and be Doctor Patel’s next patient.
She needs to know this is a good thing.
“It’s okay,” I say to her. She looks for my voice. I’m sure she wishes it were coming from someone she knows. I can’t give her that. But I can try to give her peace. Hope. “Everyone is here to help. Let them help.”
And then she is around the corner. Gone. So I push forward.
Still checking every stretcher and doorway for someone I know. Someone I love.
An old man reaches for me. Wants to knot my fingers with his the same way I wanted to knot mine with Charlie’s. I fold his hand into mine as I pass, thinking I’ll give him a brief moment of comfort, then move on. But when I look at his face, he looks back at me with watery eyes. His skin hangs ashen and dull.
He’s almost gone.
“Nurse!” I yell, waving my free hand. “Over here! Hurry!”
The nurse rushes over. Puts her fingertips to his wrist. Checks his pulse. I hold his other hand, waiting. Hoping. The nurse shakes her head. Mouths, “I’m sorry.”
What? “No.” My eyes tear. They can’t just pick and choose. “Do something!”
But she moves on. Eager to help someone who still has a chance.
This man doesn’t.
The old man’s fingers loosen their grip on mine. He gasps for breath. I hang on tighter. He’s slipping but I can’t let go. Nobody deserves to die all alone in a hallway. I remember Charlie. The way he stayed with Jason at the fraternity party, waiting for the ambulance, holding on to hope. I told him it mattered that he’d stayed with him until the end. It mattered that Charlie didn’t let his friend die alone.
“I’m here,” I say. I want to give this man something. Access to a memory. A vision better than here. But I don’t know him. I don’t know his life.
So I tell him about the things I love. That most people love. Like sunshine and ocean water and salty air and sandy feet. His breathing strains. It’s the sound of Charlie all over again. I close my eyes. Try to give him what I couldn’t give Charlie. I tighten my grip on his hand. Let him know the feel of skin on skin from another human in his final moments. I keep talking.
Of blue skies and tall mountains. Of love and laughter. Of the first day of summer. And the last day of winter. Of clouds and air. Of trees and flowers.
“Margaret . . .” The word is a whisper. “Loves flowers.”
“Yes, Margaret does love flowers. She’s picking flowers now. She’s in a great big field of them. There are so many colors. It’s so beautiful. She’s happy. She loves you. So much.”
The tiniest flicker of a smile edges the corner of his mouth as his watery eyes focus then fade.
One last breath.
His hand goes still in mine.
And he’s gone.
I want to fall to the floor like the woman in the yellow shirt. Not just for this man but for Charlie, too. And his friend at the fraternity party. And the person in the bed in the room across from mine in the ICU. For the rows of people lined up along the outside of the hospital and inside the stairwells. For the ones covered up in the triage tents and the ones who won’t be found.
But I have to keep moving. I have to keep pushing myself forward, one foot in front of the other. So I rest this man’s hand over the still space of his heart and let go.
I don’t want to risk waiting for an elevator and being greeted by security guards when I make it to the first floor, so I take a breath, pull Charlie’s journal against my chest, adjust my sweatshirt collar over my mouth and nose, and push the heavy door open into the stairwell.
Don’t look, I tell myself. Don’t breathe.
The bodies are still piled there. More now than before. The rotting smell even worse. My eyes sting and my lungs scream as I run downstairs, passing all of them as I round each flight.
It seems to go on forever.
Until. Finally. An exit door.
I push it open and stumble into the cold morning air, gasping for breath. My head spins, dizzy, from running down multiple flights of stairs without breathing. I steady myself against the side of the building. Inhale fresh air. Try to focus. What if I’m not healed enough to do this? My knees wobble and my vision blurs. I squint my eyes against the daylight. It’s overcast but still so bright compared to the rubble and the blue-gray dim of hospital rooms. But I’m out here in it. I made it. I raise my face to the sky. Let the wind take hold of my hair. To remind me I’m alive. That I survived. And when I finally feel the fizz in my fingertips fade, I push off the wall and move on.
Tents clutter the parking lot. So many people still need help. Then I see a table stacked with granola bars and bottled waters. I edge closer. Not granola bars. Protein bars. Like the ones packed in my emergency earthquake kit in elementary school. I take exactly five. I can make them last for two to three days. Taking more would feel like stealing from the volunteers. Or the ones still hurting. The ones still healing. I stuff the bars and four water bottles into the pockets of my sweatshirt. Then go.