“It’s me.” Charity’s voice broke. “Something horrible has happened.”
“What? Where are you? What happened?”
Charity wanted to shove the phone at Enzo and have him tell the story, but her mother deserved to hear it from her. She forced out word by painful word, telling her of their prison break. “I dressed the wound, applied pressure, and gave him a shot from the director’s first aid kit. It said it would slow bleeding. But he just … after a few minutes, I couldn’t find a pulse anymore.” She didn’t say more, couldn’t get words past the lump in her throat.
“What was the name of the shot?” her mother asked, hope—or denial—interweaved with panic.
“Ephedri-something.”
“Has rigor mortis set in?”
“No, but that’s probably because of the oxygen and the heart compressions.”
“I’m getting a doctor. Keep doing compressions and bring your father to the farm as quickly as you can.” Her mother hung up without saying goodbye.
Charity clung to those words, clung to the hope that a doctor could do something. “Does the phone have any internet data credits?” she asked. “Blue, look up what Ephedrioxygenium is.”
Blue took the phone, checked the settings, and shook her head. “The phone won’t get internet unless it’s connected to someone’s system.”
Five minutes before they reached the farm, the battery for the oxygen mask died. While Blue dug a new one from the first aid kit, Charity held her hand to her father’s lips. One warm breath against her palm was all she needed. She willed thewarmth to come, could have almost imagined she felt it. And yet, it didn’t seem to be there.
She put the new battery in the mask and replaced it on her father’s mouth. Blue and Enzo exchanged a look but neither commented.
They drove on, bumping over juts and ridges as the road got worse—going too fast and yet not fast enough. Finally, they pulled into the farm’s drive.
Her mother and Mr. Whitney stood outside, waiting for them. Her mother’s face was alight with worry. Enzo parked in front of her.
Charity’s mother opened the door almost before the car stopped. She leaned in and pushed Enzo’s suit coat away to see the wound and the bandage. Charity held out the shot’s packaging. “This is what I gave him.”
Her mother nodded. “That’s what I thought. We’ll take him to the doctor. He may still have a chance.” She and Mr. Whitney carefully pulled her father from the car.
Enzo had gotten out as well. He helped Mr. Whitney carry her father toward the house while her mother strode along beside them. Charity felt cold and exposed. She picked up Enzo’s suit coat from the car floor, put it on, and ran to catch up with them.
“The main bunkhouse is unlocked,” her mother told her. “Wait there and don’t let anyone see you.”
“I can help the doctor,” Charity said. “I’ll do whatever he needs.”
“He brought an assistant,” her mother said. “They’re already sterile and waiting. I’ll be there to help as well.”
“But—” Charity protested.
“Wait in the bunkhouse.” Her mother swept away from her. “Don’t worry. I know what to do.” She followed the others.
Charity watched her go with an odd sense of déjà vu, seeing her vision played out.
Blue climbed out of the car. The phone connected now, and she was reading something off the phone screen. “This says Ephedrioxygenium is a controversially expensive treatment. In order to stop bleeding, it does a bunch of complicated stuff that basically stops the heart.”
“What? That doesn’t make sense.” The treatment killed the patient? She’d given her father something that had killed him? She nearly sank to her knees. She’d caused her father’s death.
“It also slowly delivers a highly concentrated form of oxygen to the brain and other organs to preserve function. However, the longer the patient goes without medical help the more cell necrosis happens. What’s necrosis?”
“Cell death. Tissue damage.”
How much would there be? Perhaps Charity was selfish. She didn’t care if her father was damaged as long as he lived. “Let me see the article.”
Blue handed her the phone. The report didn’t give many more details than the ones Blue had just said. Charity’s mother, who’d been familiar with the drug, didn’t know whether he would even live. Had Charity made things worse or better by giving him the shot?
She trudged to the bunkhouse, a typical sort of building with wooden walls and metal roof. Bunk beds lined up like soldiers in the middle of the empty room.