Sharp Edges

Word count: 1200

Sharp Edges

“...death toll in the tens of thousands, making this the deadliest epidemic in the U.S. in hundreds of years. Vaccines are available, but there is a severe shortage…”

Lola clicked out of the broadcast.

“What’s wrong?”

Her legs were tangled in gym shorts and her duvet. “I’m just cold,” she said, pulling her baggy sweatshirt down over her knees. “From the ice cream.” She touched his face on the computer screen. “I miss you.”

“I’m glad you’re not here.”

“That bad?”

She’d tried not to sound worried, but he shifted into a cheery tone. “We can tell who’s sick, so it’s easy to avoid. It sucks to tranquilize people who are just having an allergic reaction, though.

“Wilsonville thought it was a stomach bug at first.”

The camera angle on screen shifted as he sat down. His hair was wet and plastered to his head from a shower, and he was wearing the tacky t-shirt he’d worn to Disneyland last month. A middle-aged man and woman in saggy, stained coveralls walked by, their voices interrupting his.

“Wilsonville?” He sighed. “Nobody at home has it, right?”

She hesitated a beat. “No.” Shoving aside her empty pint of ice cream with the plastic spoon balanced inside, she wriggled down onto her stomach. She tried not to wince at a sharp pain in her abdomen.

“Babe?”

“I’m fine. Just sensitive to dairy.” Another sharp pain shot through her stomach and she drew her knees up toward her chest. “Maybe the ice cream wasn’t a great idea.”

“Take some Tums or something?” he said, his forehead crinkling.

She smiled. “I’ll be fine. My fault.”

“I can’t wait to see you again.”

“I love you,” she said quietly. She would never see him again. He didn’t know. He was too optimistic.

“You should get some sleep.”

“Okay.”

He blew her a kiss and signed off. She slowly closed the top of the laptop and pulled it close to her. It was as close as she could get to him.

****

“It’s worse than you thought, isn’t it?”

Over the phone, her voice was scratchy. Sweaty palms slipping on the steering wheel, he shook his head even though she couldn’t see him. “We’re making a difference. That’s what matters.”

Always the disease, taking up time they could have spent talking about their future—if they could even have a future together.

“How do you know when people have it?”

He frowned. “People complain of sharp internal pain or constant coldness. And we assume everyone has it.” She had been so interested in his work with the disease lately.

“That sucks.” She sniffed.

“Bad allergies today?”

She coughed a little. “Uh, yeah. Something in the air.”

He looked down at the tiny syringe nestled in a bundle of protective wrapping, tucked into his cupholder. If he could only get her mind off the disease for a while.

“How’s school?” he asked, his hands slipping on the wheel again as he turned down the long gravel driveway.

She laughed. He’d missed that laugh. “Closed indefinitely. But Mrs. Brighton is still making us do our English homework!”

“Of course she would! What are you reading?”

“We’re writing. Essays.”

He blew a raspberry.

“Exactly.”

For a moment, they could pretend they weren’t waiting for the disease to come and pop the safe bubble they called home.

Her house appeared at the end of the lane. He dropped one hand from the wheel, his fingers curling around the syringe.

As he got out of the car, raising his phone to his ear, he dropped the syringe in his pocket.

“Hey, babe, I have a surprise for you.”

She gasped softly. “What?”

“Open your front door.”

“Jack, if you—”

“Just come to the door.”

“But—”

He shifted the phone to his other side as he stepped onto the porch. Just on time, the door swung open. She stood framed in the opening, wrapped up in a blue flannel shirt and sweatpants.

Her hand went to her mouth.

He swung his arms out wide, grinning. “It’s me!”

“Don’t you dare!”

She took a step back, but he was already moving. He reached in and grabbed her hand, pulling her close.

“Your hand is so cold,” he said, and then he realized she was crying.

“Why did you come?” she asked.

“What’s wrong? Don’t cry.” He looked into her face, with its red eyes and upturned, freckled nose. She sniffled and didn’t answer, just looked at him as though her eyes were starved for the sight of him.

Something glinted on her chin—a stray tear. He reached out to brush it away. She flinched away from his hand.

“What is that?”

“Hives. From the…milk.” She ducked her chin.

But he’d seen it. A flat, shiny spot. She had it. And it would spread quickly, turning her skin to diamond-clear crystal. His stomach churned, reminding him why he was there.

“Here, I brought you something.” He breathed in deeply and pulled the syringe from his pocket. “To hold you over until this all ends.”

She laughed stiffly. “Drugs?”

“A vaccine.”

Her big eyes snapped from it to his face.

“You stole one?”

He almost jumped at the hard crackle in her voice. “Look, I can’t—”

“All those sick people and you stole—”

“I can’t lose you!”

Silence.

“Okay? I have to know you’ll be okay.” He spoke softly. “It was going to save someone. It might as well be someone I love.”

She hugged herself. He wished he’d be able to propose to her one day.

“Take it.”

She reached out and gently took it. “We should both—”

“There’s only enough for one person. Don’t waste it.”

She turned it over in her hand, then looked him in the eye.

“It’s too late.”

He knew, but watching her pull her hand from her pocket and show him another telltale scab hurt.

“It’s not. Take it; it might help.” He felt sick to his stomach. Every moment was a moment the vaccine could be working.

“That means you have it too, Jack,” she said. A tear slid down her cheek and over another spot appearing on her chin.

“Take it, now. I’ll get another one. Please.” He was suddenly afraid she would drop the syringe. He wanted to hold her. But it hovered between them, shining.

She uncapped it.

For a minute she couldn’t speak. Then she dropped the cap on the ground and slid her fingers into the proper place.

She took a deep breath, then smiled gently and plunged the syringe into his arm.

He pulled away, but it was too late. His heart hammered against his ribs and spots faded in and out over the picture of her. The syringe shattered on the ground and she wrapped her arms around him. Her skin was ice cold against his and tears soaked the front of his shirt.

“Just remember I love you,” she said through them.

“Lola—”

“You go save people. For me. Okay?”

The crystal on her body spread under his fingertips. It was too late. He hugged her close and cried into her hair. He had tried to save someone, and he had only saved himself.