ForAlyson

—R.L.

Wededicatethisbook,andthemovie,toallthepatients,families,medicalstaff,andlovedoneswhobravelyfightthebattleagainst

cysticfibrosiseveryday.WehopethestoryofStellaandWillhelpstobringawarenesstothisdiseaseand,oneday,acure.

—M.D.andT.I.

CHAPTER1

STELLA

I trace the outline of my sister’s drawing, lungs molded from a sea offlowers.Petalsburstout fromeveryedgeof the twinovals in softpinks,deepwhites,evenheatherblues,butsomehoweachonehasauniqueness,avibrancythatfeelslikeit’llbloomforever.Someoftheflowershaven’tblossomedyet,andIcanfeelthepromiseoflifejustwaitingtounfoldfromthetinybudsundertheweightofmyfinger.Thosearemyfavorites.

Iwonder,alltoooften,whatitwouldbeliketohavelungsthishealthy.Thisalive.Itakeadeepbreath,feelingtheairfightitswayinandoutofmybody.

Slippingoffthelastpetalofthelastflower,myhandsinks,fingersdraggingthrough the background of stars, each pinpoint of light that Abby drew aseparateattempttocapture infinity. Iclearmythroat,pullingmyhandaway,andleanovertograbapictureofusfromoffmybed.Identicalsmilespeekoutfrom underneath thick wool scarves, the holiday lights at the park down thestreettwinklingaboveourheadsjustlikethestarsinherdrawing.

Therewassomethingmagicalaboutit.Thesoftglowofthelamppostsinthepark,thewhitesnowclingingtothebranchesofthetrees,thequietstillnessofit all.We nearly froze our butts off for that picture last year, but itwas ourtradition.MeandAbby,bravingthecoldtogoseetheholidaylightstogether.

Thisphotoalwaysmakesmerememberthatfeeling.Thefeelingofgoingonan adventurewithmy sister, just the two of us, theworld expanding like anopenbook.

Itakeathumbtackandhangthepicturenexttothedrawingbeforesittingdownonmybedandgrabbingmypocketnotebookandpenciloffmybedsidetable.Myeyestraveldownthe longto-do list Imadeformyself thismorning,

starting with “#1: Plan to-do list,” which I’ve already put a satisfying linethrough,andgoingallthewaydownto“#22:Contemplatetheafterlife.”

Number22wasprobablyjustalittleambitiousforaFridayafternoon,butatleast for now I can cross off number 17, “Decorate walls.” I look around theformerlystarkroomI’vespentthebetterpartofthemorningmakingmyown,onceagain,thewallsnowfilledwiththeartworkAbby’sgivenmethroughtheyears, bits of color and life jumping out from clinicalwhitewalls, each one aproductofadifferenttriptothehospital.

MewithanIVdripinmyarm,thebagburstingwithbutterfliesofdifferentshapes and colors and sizes.Mewearing anose cannula, the cable twisting toformaninfinitysign.Mewithmynebulizer,thevaporpouringoutofitformingacloudyhalo.Thenthere’sthemostdelicateone,afadedtornadoofstarsthatshedrewmyveryfirsttimehere.

It’s not as polished as her later stuff, but somehow that makes me like itmore.

Andrightunderneathallthatvibrancyis...mypileofmedicalequipment,sitting right next to a hideous green faux-leather hospital chair that comesstandardforeveryroomhereatSaintGrace’s. IeyetheemptyIVpolewarily,knowingmyfirstofmanyroundsofantibioticsoverthenextmonthisexactlyanhourandnineminutesaway.Luckyme.

“Here it is!” a voice calls from just outsidemy room. I look up as the doorslowly creaks open and two familiar faces appear in the small crack of thedoorway. Camila and Mya have visited me here a million times in the pastdecade,andtheystillcan’tgetfromthelobbytomyroomwithoutaskingeverypersoninthebuildingfordirections.

“Wrongroom,”Isay,grinningasalookofpurereliefwashesoverthem.

Myalaughs,pushingthedooropentherestoftheway.“Ithonestlycould’vebeen.Thisplaceisstillafreakingmaze.”

“Areyouguysexcited?”Isay,hoppinguptogivethembothhugs.

Camila pulls away to look atme, pouting, her dark-brownhair practicallydroopingalongwithher.“Secondtripinarowwithoutyou.”

It’s true.This isn’t the first timemycystic fibrosishastakenmeoutof therunningforsomeclasstriporsunnyvacationorschoolevent.About70percentof the time, things are pretty normal forme. I go to school, I hang outwith

CamilaandMya,Iworkonmyapp.Ijustdoitallwithlow-functioninglungs.Butfortheremaining30percentofmytime,CFcontrolsmylife.MeaningwhenIneedtoreturntothehospitalforatune-up,Imissoutonthings likeaclasstriptotheartmuseumornowourseniortriptoCabo.

This particular tune-up just happens to be centered around the fact that Ineedtobepumpedwithantibioticstofinallygetridofasorethroatandafeverthatwon’tgoaway.

That,andmylungfunctionistanking.

Myaplunksdownonmybed,sighingdramaticallyassheliesback.“It’sonlytwoweeks.Areyousureyoucan’tcome?It’sourseniortrip,Stella!”

“I’m sure,” I say firmly, and theyknow Imean it.We’vebeen friends sincemiddleschool,andtheyknowbynowthatwhenitcomestoplans,myCFgetsthefinalsay.

It’s not like I don’t want to go. It’s just, quite literally, amatter of life ordeath.Ican’tgoofftoCabo,oranywhereforthatmatter,andrisknotcomingback.Ican’tdothattomyparents.Notnow.

“Youweretheheadoftheplanningcommitteethisyear,though!Can’tyougetthemtomoveyourtreatments?Wedon’twantyoutobestuckhere,”Camilasays,gesturingtothehospitalroomIsocarefullydecorated.

Ishakemyhead.“Westillhavespringbreaktogether!AndIhaven’tmissedaspringbreak‘BestiesWeekend’sinceeighthgrade,whenIgotthatcold!”Isay,smilinghopefullyandlookingbackandforthbetweenCamilaandMya.Neitherofthemreturnsmysmile,though,andbothopttocontinuelookinglikeIkilledtheirfamilypets.

Inoticethey’rebothholdingthebagsofbathingsuitsItoldthemtobring,soI grabCamila’s outofherhand in adesperate attempt to change the subject.“Ooh,suitoptions!Wehavetopickoutthebestones!”SinceI’mnotgoingtobebaskinginthewarmCabosuninabathingsuitofmychoice,IfigureIcanatleastlivealittlevicariouslythroughmyfriendsbypickingouttheirswiththem.

This perks them both up. We eagerly dump their bags out on my bed,creatingamishmashoffloralsandpolkadotsandfluorescents.

IscanCamila’spileofbathingsuits,grabbingaredonethatfallssomewherebetweenabikinibottomandasinglepieceofthread,whichIknowwithoutadoubtisahand-me-downfromheroldersister,Megan.

Itossittoher.“Thisone.It’sveryyou.”

Hereyeswiden,andsheholdsituptoherwaist,fixingherwire-frameglassesinsurprise.“Imean,thetanlineswouldbeprettygreat—”

“Camila,”Isay,grabbingawhite-and-blue-stripedbikinithatIcantellwillfitherlikeaglove.“I’mkidding.Thisone’sperfect.”

Shelooksrelieved,grabbingthebikinifromme.IturnmyattentiontoMya’spile,butshe’sbusytextingawayfromthegreenhospitalchair inthecorner,abigsmileplasteredonherface.

Idigoutaone-piecethatshe’shadsinceswimclassinsixthgrade,holdingituptoherwithasmirk.“How’sthis,Mya?”

“Loveit!Looksgreat!”shesays,typingfuriously.

Camila snorts,puttingher suitsback in thebagandgivingmea sly smile.“MasonandBrookecalleditquits,”shesaysinexplanation.

“Ohmygod.Theydidnot!”Isay.Thisisnews.Amazingnews.

Well, not for Brooke. But Mya has been crushing on Mason since Mrs.Wilson’sEnglishclasssophomoreyear,sothistripisherchancetofinallymakeamove.

It bums me out I won’t be there to help her make a killer ten-step“WhirlwindCaboRomancewithMason”plan.

Mya puts her phone away and shrugs casually, standing and pretending tolookatsomeoftheartworkonthewalls.“Nobigdeal.We’regoingtomeethimandTaylorattheairporttomorrowmorning.”

Igiveheralookandshebreaksoutintoahugesmile.“Okay,it’salittlebitofabigdeal!”

We all squeal with excitement, and I hold up an adorable polka-dot one-piece that is super vintage, and right up her alley. She nods, grabbing it andholdingituptoherbody.“Iwastotallyhopingyou’dpickthisone.”

I look over to see Camila glancing at her watch nervously, which is nosurprise. She’s a championprocrastinator andprobably hasn’t packed a singlethingforCaboyet.

Besidesthebikini,ofcourse.

Sheseesmenoticehercheckingherwatchandgrinssheepishly.“Istillneedtobuyabeachtowelfortomorrow.”

ClassicCamila.

Istandup,myheartsinkinginmychestatthethoughtofthemleaving,butIdon’twanttoholdthemup.“Youguyshavetogetgoing,then!Yourplaneisat,like,theasscrackofdawntomorrow.”

Mya looks around the room sadly while Camila twists her bag of suitsdejectedlyaroundherhand.ThetwoofthemaremakingthisevenharderthanIthoughtitwouldbe.Iswallowtheguiltandannoyancethatcomebubblingup.It’snotlikethey’retheonesmissingtheirseniortriptoCabo.Atleastthey’llbetogether.

Igivethembothbigsmiles,practicallypullingthemtothedoorwithme.Mycheekshurtfromallthisfakepositivity,butIdon’twanttoruinitforthem.

“We’llsendyouabunchofpictures,okay?”Camilasays,givingmeahug.

“You’dbetter! Photoshopme into a few,” I say toMya,who is awizard atAdobe.“Youwon’tevenknowIwasn’tthere!”

Theylingerinthedoorway,andIgivethemanexaggeratedeyeroll,playfullyshovingthemoutintothehallway.“Getouttahere.Gohaveagreattrip.”

“Loveyou,Stella!”theycallastheywalkdownthehallway.Iwatchthemgo,wavinguntilMya’sbouncingcurlsarecompletelyoutofsight,suddenlywantingnothingmorethantobewalkingoutwiththem,offtopackinsteadofunpack.

My smile fades as I close the door and see the old family picture pinnedcarefullytothebackofmydoor.

Itwas taken a few summers ago on the front porch of our houseduring aFourthofJulybarbecue.Me,Abby,Mom,andDad,goofysmilesonallourfacesasthecameracapturesthemoment.IfeelaswellofhomesicknessasIhearthesoundof theworn,ricketywoodof that frontstep,creakingunderneathusaswe laugh and get close for the picture. Imiss that feeling.All of us together,happyandhealthy.Forthemostpart.

Thisisn’thelping.Sighing,Ipullmyselfaway, lookingoveratthemedicinecart.

Inallhonesty,Ilikeithere.It’sbeenmyhomeawayfromhomesinceIwassix,soIusuallydon’tmindcoming.Igetmytreatments,Itakemymedicine,Idrinkmybodyweightinmilkshakes,IgettoseeBarbandJulie,Ileaveuntilmy

nextflare-up.Simpleasthat.ButthistimeIfeelanxious,restlesseven.Becauseinsteadofjustwantingtogethealthy,Ineedtogethealthy.Formyparents’sake.

Because they’ve gone and messed up everything by getting divorced. Andafterlosingeachother,theywon’tbeabletohandlelosingme,too.Iknowit.

IfIcangetbetter,maybe...

One step at a time. I head over to the wall oxygen, double-checking theflowmeterissetproperly,andlistenforthesteadyhissoftheoxygencomingoutofitbeforeIpullthetubearoundmyearsandslidetheprongsofthecannulaintomynose.Sighing, I sinkdownontothe familiarlyuncomfortablehospitalmattress,andtakeadeepbreath.

Ireachformypocketnotebooktoreadthenextthingonmyto-dolistandkeepmyselfpreoccupied—“#18:Recordavideo.”

I grab my pencil and bite it thoughtfully as I stare at the words I wroteearlier.Oddlyenough,contemplatingtheafterlifeseemseasierrightnow.

Butthelististhelist,so,exhaling,Ireachovertomybedsidetabletogetmylaptop,sittingcross-leggedonthenewfloralcomforterIpickedoutyesterdayatTargetwhileCamilaandMyawerebuyingclothesforCabo.Ididn’tevenneedthecomforter,buttheyweresoenthusiasticinhelpingmepicksomethingoutformytriptothehospital,Ifeltbadnotgettingit.Atleastitsortofmatchesmywallsnow,brightandvibrantandcolorful.

Idrummyfingersanxiouslyonthekeyboard,andsquintatmyreflectioninthescreenwhilemycomputerstartsup.Ifrownatthemessoflongbrownhairand try to smooth it down, running my fingers through it over and over.Frustrated, I pull my hair tie off my wrist and resort to a messy bun in anattempttolookhalfwaydecentforthisvideo.IgrabmycopyofJavaCodingforAndroidPhonesoffmybedsidetableandputmylaptopontopof it, soIdon’tshowsomeseriousunderchin,andcanhaveashotthat’sremotelyflattering.

LoggingontomyYouTubeLiveaccount,Iadjustthewebcam,makingsureyoucanseeAbby’slungdrawingdirectlybehindme.

It’stheperfectbackdrop.

I closemy eyes and take adeepbreath, hearing the familiarwheeze ofmylungs trying desperately to fill with air through the sea of mucus. Exhalingslowly,IslapabigHallmark-greeting-cardsmileonmyfacebeforeopeningmyeyesandpressingtheenterkeytogolive.

“Hey,guys. Is everyonehavingagoodBlackFriday? Iwaited for snowthatnevercame!”

IglanceintothecornerofmyscreenasIturnthecameratowardthehospitalwindow,theskyacloudygray,thetreesontheothersideoftheglasscompletelybarren. I smile asmy livestreamcount goes steadilypast 1K, a fractionof the23,940 YouTube subscribers who tune in to see how my battle with cysticfibrosisisgoing.

“So,IcouldbegettingreadytogoonaplanetoCaboformyschool’sseniortrip, but instead I’ll be spending this holiday at my home away from home,thankstoamildsorethroat.”

Plus, a raging fever. I think back towhen I gotmy temperature taken onintake this morning, the flashing numbers on the thermometer blaring out astrong102.Idon’twanttomentionitinthevideo,though,becausemyparentswilldefinitelybewatchingthislater.

Asfarastheyknow,Ijusthaveanaggingcold.

“Whoneedstwowholeweeksof sunshineandblueskiesandbeacheswhenyoucanhaveamonthofluxuryrightinyourownbackyard?”

Irattleofftheamenities,countingthemonmyfingers.“Let’ssee.I’vegotafull-timeconcierge,unlimitedchocolatepudding,andlaundryservice.Oh,andBarbtalkedDr.Hamidintolettingmekeepallmymedsandtreatmentsinmyroomthistime!Checkitout!”

Iturnthewebcamtothepileofmedicalequipmentandthentothemedicinecart next to me, which I’ve already perfectly organized into alphabetical andchronologicalorderbythescheduleddosagetimeIpluggedintotheappImade.It’sfinallyreadyforatestrun!

Thatwas number 14 on today’s to-do list, and I’m pretty proud of how itturnedout.

My computer dings as comments begin rolling in. I see one mentioningBarb’snamewithsomeheartemojis.She’sacrowdfavoritejustasmuchasshe’smyfavorite.EversinceIfirstcametothehospitalmorethantenyearsago,she’sbeentherespiratorytherapisthere,slippingcandytomeandtheotherCFers,likemypartnerincrimePoe.Sheholdsourhandthrougheventhemostbone-crushinggripsofpainlikeit’snothing.

I’vebeenmakingYouTubevideosforabouthalfthattimetoraiseawarenessabout cystic fibrosis. Through the years more people than I could have everimagined began following my surgeries and my treatments and my visits toSaint Grace’s, sticking with me through my awkward braces phase andeverything.

“Mylungfunctionisdowntothirty-fivepercent,”IsayasIturnthecamerabacktome.“Dr.HamidsaysI’msteadilyclimbingtothetopofthetransplantlist now, so I’ll be here for a month, taking antibiotics, sticking to myregimen . . . .” My eyes travel to the drawing behind me, the healthy lungsloomingovermyhead,justoutofreach.

Ishakemyheadandsmile,leaningovertogrababottlefromthemedicinecart. “That means taking my medications on time, wearing my AffloVest tobreak up that mucus, and”—I hold up the bottle—“a whole lot of this liquidnutrition throughmyG-tube every night. If any ladies out there are wishingthey could eat five thousand calories a day and still have aCabo-readybeachbody,I’mupforatrade.”

Mycomputerdingsaway,messagespouringinoneafteranother.Readingafew,IletthepositivitypushawayallthenegativityIfeltgoingintothis.

Hanginthere,Stella!Weloveyou.

Marryme!

“New lungs can come in at anymoment, so I’ve got to be ready!” I say thewords like I believe them wholeheartedly. Though after all these years I’velearnedtonotgetmyhopesuptoomuch.

DING!Anothermessage.

I’vegotCFandyouremindmetoalwaysstaypositive.XOXO.

Myheartwarms,andIgiveafinalbigsmileforthecamera,forthatpersonfightingthesamefightthatIam.Thistimeit’sgenuine.“Allright,guys,thanksfor watching! Gotta double-checkmy afternoon and eveningmeds now. YouknowhowanalIam.Ihopeeveryonehasagreatweek.Bye!”

Iendthelivevideoandexhaleslowly,closingthebrowsertoseethesmiling,winter-formal-ready faces onmy desktop background.Me, Camila, andMya,arm in arm, all in the same deep-red lipstick we’d picked out together atSephora.Camilahadwantedabrightpink,butMyahadconvincedusthatredwasthecolorweNEEDEDinourlife.I’mstillnotconvincedthatwastrue.

Lyingback, I pickup thewornpanda restingonmypillows andwrapmyarms tightly around him. Patches, my sister, Abby, named him. And what afittingnamethatbecame.Theyearsofcominginandoutofthehospitalwithmehavecertainly taken their tollonhim.Multicoloredpatchesare sewnoverspotswhereherippedopen,hisstuffingpouringoutwhenIsqueezedtoohardduringthemostpainfulofmytreatments.

There’saknockonmydoor,anditfliesopennotevenasecondlaterasBarbbustsinholdinganarmfulofpuddingcupsformetotakemymedicationwith.“I’mback!Delivery!”

WhenitcomestoBarb,notmuchhaschangedinthepastsixmonths,orthepasttenyearsforthatmatter;she’sstillthebest.Thesameshort,curlyhair.Thesamecolorfulscrubs.Thesamesmilethatlightsuptheentireroom.

ButthenanextremelypregnantJulietrailsbehindher,carryinganIVdrip.

Nowthat’sabigchangefromsixmonthsago.

IswallowmysurpriseandgrinatBarbassheplacesthepuddingattheedgeofmybedformetosortontomymedicinecart,thenpullsoutalisttodouble-checkthatthecarthaseverythingIneedonit.

“WhatwouldIdowithoutyou?”Iask.

Shewinks.“You’ddie.”

JuliehangstheIVbagofantibioticsnexttome,herbellybrushingupagainstmyarm.Whydidn’tshetellmeshe’spregnant?Igorigid,smilingthinly,asIeyeherbabybumpandtrytosubtlymoveawayfromit.“Alot’schangedinthepastsixmonths!”

Sherubsherbelly,blueeyesshiningbrightlyasshegivesmeabigsmile.“Youwanttofeelherkick?”

“No,”Isay,alittletooquickly.Ifeelbadwhenshelooksslightlytakenabackatmybluntness,herblondeyebrowsarchingupinsurprise.ButIdon’twantanyofmybadjujunearthatperfect,healthybaby.

Luckily,her eyes travel tomydesktopbackground. “Are those yourwinterformalpics?IsawabunchonInsta!”shesays,excited.“Howwasit?”

“Superfun!”Isaywithatonofenthusiasmastheawkwardnessmeltsaway.Iopenafolderonmydesktopfilledwithpictures.“Crusheditonthedancefloorforasolidthreesongs.Gottorideinalimo.Thefooddidn’tsuck.Plus,Imade

it to ten thirty before I got tired,whichwasway better than expected!Whoneedsacurfewwhenyourbodydoesitforyou,right?”

I show her and Barb some pictures we all took atMya’s house before thedancewhileshehooksmeuptotheIVdripandtestsmybloodpressureandO2reading. IrememberIusedtobeafraidofneedles,butwitheveryblooddrawandIVdrip,thatfearslowlydriftedaway.NowIdon’tevenflinch.ItmakesmefeelstrongeverytimeIgetpokedorprodded.LikeIcanovercomeanything.

“All righty,” Barb says when they get all my vitals and finish oohing andaahingovermysparkly,silverA-linegownandmywhiterosecorsage.Camila,Mya,andIdecidedtoswapcorsageswhenwewentstagtotheformal.Ididn’twanttotakeadate,not thatanybodyaskedmeanyway. Itwas superpossiblethatIwouldneedtobailthedayof,orwouldn’tfeelwellhalfwaythroughthedance,whichwouldn’t have been fair towhomever I could’ve gonewith.Thetwoofthemdidn’twantmetofeelleftout,soinsteadofgettingdatesoftheirown, they decided we’d all go together. Because of theMason developments,though,thatdoesn’tseemsuperlikelyforprom.

Barb nods to the filledmedicine cart, resting a hand on her hip. “I’ll stillmonitor you, but you’re prettymuch good to go.” She holds up a pill bottle.“Remember,youhave totakethisonewithfood,”shesays,puttingitcarefullybackandholdingupanotherone.“Andmakesureyoudon’t—”

“Igotit,Barb,”Isay.She’sjustbeingherusualmotherlyself,butsheholdsupherhandsinsurrender.DeepdownsheknowsthatI’llbeabsolutelyfine.

Iwavegood-byeastheybothheadtowardthedoor,usingtheremotenexttomybedtosititupalittlemore.

“By the way,” Barb says slowly as Julie ducks out of the room. Her eyesnarrowatmeandshegivesmeagentlewarninglook.“IwantyoutofinishyourIVdripfirst,butPoe’sjustcheckedintoroom310.”

“What?Really?” I say,my eyeswidening as Imove to launchmyself outofbedtofindhim.Ican’tbelievehedidn’ttellmehe’dbehere!

Barbstepsforward,grabbingmyshouldersandpushingmegentlybackdownontothebedbeforeIcanfullystand.“Whatpartof‘IwantyoutofinishyourIVdripfirst’didyounotget?”

I smile sheepishly at her, but how could she blameme? Poe was the firstfriendImadewhenIcametothehospital.He’stheonlyonewhoreallygetsit.

We’ve fought CF together for a freaking decade. Well, together from a safedistance,anyway.

We can’t get too close to each other. For cystic fibrosis patients, cross-infection fromcertainbacteria strains is a huge risk.One touchbetween twoCFerscanliterallykillthebothofthem.

Herseriousfrowngiveswaytoagentlesmile.“Settlein.Relax.Takeachillpill.”Sheeyesthemedicinecart,jokingly.“Notliterally.”

Inod,areallaughspillingout,asafreshwaveofrelieffillsmeatthenewsofPoebeingheretoo.

“I’ll stop by later to help you with your AffloVest,” Barb says over hershoulder as she leaves. Grabbingmy phone, I settle for a quick text messageinsteadofamaddashdownthehalltoroom310.

You’rehere?Metoo.Tune-up.

Notevenasecondgoesbyandmyscreenlightsupwithhisreply:Bronchitis.Justhappened.I’lllive.Comebyandwaveatmelater.Gonnacrashnow.

Ileanbackonthebed,exhalinglongandslow.

Truthis,I’mnervousaboutthisvisit.

Mylungfunctionfellto35percentsoquickly.Andnow,evenmorethanthefeverandthesorethroat,beinghere inthehospital forthenextmonthdoingtreatment after treatment to stem the tide while my friends are far away isfreakingmeout.Alot.Thirty-fivepercentisanumberthatkeepsmymomupat night. She doesn’t say it, but her computer does. Search after search aboutlungtransplantsandlung-functionpercentages,newcombinationsandphrasingbutalwaysthesameidea.Howtogetmemoretime. ItmakesmemoreafraidthanI’veeverbeenbefore.Butnotforme.WhenyouhaveCF,yousortofgetusedtotheideaofdyingyoung.No,I’mterrifiedformyparents.Andwhatwillbecomeofthemiftheworstdoeshappen,nowthattheydon’thaveeachother.

ButwithPoehere,someonewhounderstands,Icangetthroughit.OnceI’mactuallyallowedtoseehim.

***

Therestoftheafternoongoesbyslowly.

Iworkonmyapp,double-checkingthatIworkedouttheprogrammingerrorthatkeptcomingupwhenItriedtorunitonmyphone.IputsomeFucidinonthe sore skin aroundmyG-tube in an attempt tomake it less fire-engine red

andmoreofasummer-sunsetpink.Icheckanddouble-checkmy“AtBedtime”pileofbottles andpills. I reply tomyparents’ every-hour-on-the-hour texts. Igaze out the window as the afternoon fades and see a couple about my age,laughingandkissingastheywalkintothehospital.It’snoteverydayyouseeahappy couple coming into a hospital. Watching them holding hands andexchanging longingglances, Iwonderwhat itwouldbe liketohavesomebodylookatmelikethat.Peoplearealwayslookingatmycannula,myscars,myG-tube,notatme.

Itdoesn’tmakeguyswanttolineupbymylocker.

I“dated”TylerPaulmyfreshmanyearofhighschool,butthatlastedallofamonth,untilIcamedownwithaninfectionandneededtogotothehospitalforafewweeks.Evenjustafewdaysin,histextsstartedtogetfurtherandfurtherapart, and I decided to break up with him. Besides, it was nothing like thatcoupleoutinthecourtyard.Tyler’spalmsweresweatywhenweheldhands,andheworesomuchAxebodyspray,Iwouldgointocoughingfitseverytimewehugged.

This thought process is not exactly a helpful distraction, so I even givenumber22,“Contemplatetheafterlife,”onmyto-dolistatry,andreadsomeofLife,Death,andImmortality:TheJourneyoftheSoul.

But,pretty soon, Iopt to just lieonmybed, lookingupat theceilingandlisteningtothewheezingsoundofmybreathing.Icanheartheairstrugglingtogetpastthemucusthattakesupspaceinmylungs.Rollingover,IcrackopenavialofFloventtogivemylungsahelpinghand.Ipourtheliquidintoanebulizerby my bed, the small machine humming to life as vapors pour from themouthpiece.

Isit,staringatthedrawingofthelungswhileIbreatheinandout.

Andinandout.

Andinand...out.

Ihopewhenmyparentscometovisitoverthenextfewdays,mybreathingisa little less labored. I toldthemboththat theotheronewas takingmeto thehospitalthismorning,butIactually justtookanUberherefromthecornerastreetoverfrommymom’snewplace.Idon’twanteitherofthemtohavetofaceseeingmehereagain,atleastuntilI’mlookingbetter.

Mymomwas already givingme troubled looks when I needed to putmyportableoxygenonjusttopack.

There’s a knock onmydoor, and I look over from thewall I’m staring at,hoping it’s Poe stopping by towave atme. I pull themouthpiece off as Barbpopsherhead in.Shedropsa surgical facemaskand latexglovesontoa tablenexttomydoor.

“Newoneupstairs.Meetmeinfifteen?”

Myheartleaps.

Inod,andshegivesmeabigsmilebeforeduckingoutoftheroom.IgrabthemouthpieceandtakeonemorequickhitoftheFlovent,lettingthevaporfillmylungsthebestIcanbeforeI’mupandmoving.Shuttingthenebulizeroff,Ipickupmyportableoxygenconcentratorfromwhereit’sbeenchargingnexttomybed,pressthecircularbuttoninthecentertoturniton,andpullthestrapovermyshoulder.AfterIputthecannulain,Iheadovertothedoor,pullingonthebluelatexglovesandwrappingthestringsofthefacemaskaroundmyears.

SlidingintomywhiteConverse,Ipushmydooropenthensqueezeoutintothewhitewashedcorridor,decidingtogothelongwaysoIcanwalkpastPoe’sroom.

Ipassthenurses’stationinthecenterofthefloor,wavinghellotoayoungnurse’s assistant named Sarah, who is smiling over the top of the new, sleekmetalcubicle.

Theyreplacedthatbeforemylastvisitsixmonthsago.It’sthesameheight,butitusedtobemadeofthiswornwoodthathadprobablybeenaroundsincethe hospitalwas founded sixty-some years ago. I rememberwhen Iwas smallenough to sneakpast towhatever roomPoewas in,myhead still a good fewinchesfromclearingthedesk.

Nowitcomesuptomyelbow.

Headingdownthehallway, IgrinasI seeasmallColombianflagtapedontheoutsideof ahalf-opendoor, anoverturned skateboardkeeping itproppedslightlyopen.

IpeerinsidetoseePoefastasleeponhisbed,curledintoasurprisinglytinyballunderneathhisplaidcomforter,asuaveGordonRamsayposter,positioneddirectlyoverhisbed,keepingwatchoverhim.

Idrawaheartonthedry-eraseboardhe’sstucktotheoutsideofhisdoortolethimknowI’vebeenthere,beforemovingoffdownthehallwaytowardthewoodendoubledoorsthatwilltakemetothemainpartofthehospital,upan

elevator,downCWing, across thebridge intoBuilding 2, and straight to theNeonatalIntensiveCareUnit.

OneoftheperksofcominghereformorethanadecadeisthatIknowthehospitaljustaswellasIknewthehouseIgrewupin.Everywindingcorridor,orhiddenstaircase,orsecretshortcut,exploredoverandoveragain.

ButbeforeIcanopenthedoubledoors,aroomdoorswingsopennexttome,andIturnmyheadinsurprisetoseetheprofileofatall,thinboyI’veneverseenbefore.He’sstandinginthedoorwayofroom315,holdingasketchbookinonehand and a charcoal pencil in the other, a white hospital bracelet like minewrappedaroundhiswrist.

Istopdead.

His tousled, dark-chocolate-brown hair is perfectly unruly, like he justpoppedout of aTeenVogue and landed smack in themiddle of SaintGrace’sHospital.Hiseyesareadeepblue,thecornerscrinklingashetalks.

Butit’shissmilethatcatchesmyeyemorethananythingelse.It’s lopsided,andcharming,andithasamagneticwarmthtoit.

He’ssocute,mylungfunctionfeelslikeitdroppedanother10percent.

It’sagoodthingthismaskiscoveringhalfmyface,becauseIdidnotplanforcuteguysonmyfloorthishospitalstay.

“I’veclockedtheirschedules,”hesaysasheputsthepencilcasuallybehindhisear. I shift slightly to the left and see that he’s grinning at the couple I sawcoming into the hospital earlier. “So, unless you plant your ass on the callbutton, no one’s going to bother you for at least an hour.And don’t forget. Igottasleepinthatbed,dude.”

“Wayaheadofyou.”Iwatchasthegirlunzipstheduffelbagshe’sholdingtoshowhimblankets.

Wait.What?

Cuteguywhistles.“Lookatthat.AregularGirlScout.”

“We’renotanimals,man,”herboyfriendsaystohim,givinghimabig,dude-to-dudesmile.

Ohmygod.Gross.He’slettinghisfriendsdoitinhisroom,likeit’samotel.

Igrimaceandresumewalkingdownthehallwaytotheexitdoors,puttingasmuchspaceaspossiblebetweenmeandwhateverschemeisgoingoninthere.

Somuchforcute.

CHAPTER2

WILL

“All right, I’ll seeyou guys later,” I say,winking at Jason and closing thedoortomyroomtogivethemsomeprivacy.Icomeface-to-facewiththeemptysocketsoftheskulldrawingonmydoor,anO2maskslungoveritsmouth,withthewords“Abandonallhope,yewhoenterhere”writtenunderit.

Thatshouldbethesloganforthishospital.OranyoftheotherfiftyI’vebeeninforthepasteightmonthsofmylife.

IsquintdownthehallwaytoseethedoorswingingshutbehindthegirlIsawmoving into a room down the hall earlier today, her scuffed white Conversedisappearingontotheotherside.She’dbeenbyherself,luggingaduffelbagbigenoughforaboutthreefullygrownadults,butsheactuallylookedkindofhot.

And,let’sbehonesthere.It’snoteverydayyouseearemotelyattractivegirlhangingaroundahospital,nomorethanfivedoorsdownfromyours.

Lookingdownatmysketchbook,Ishrug,rollingitupandstuffingitintomyback pocket before heading down the hallway after her. It’s not like I haveanythingbettertodo,andI’mcertainlynottryingtostickaroundhereforthenexthour.

Pushing through the doors, I see her making her way across the gray tilefloor,wavingandchattingtojustabouteveryoneasshegoes,likeshe’sputtingonher ownpersonalThanksgivingDayParade. She steps onto the large glasselevator,overlookingtheeastlobby,justpastalarge,decked-outChristmastreetheymust’veputupearlythismorning, longbeforetheThanksgivingleftoverswereeveneaten.

Heaven forbid they leave up the giant turkey display for even a minutelonger.

Iwatch asherhands reachup to fixher facemaskwhile she leansover topressabutton,thedoorsslowlyclosing.

Istartclimbingtheopenstairsbytheelevator,tryingnottorunintoanyoneasIwatchitchugsteadilytothefifthfloor.Ofcourse.Irunupthestairsasfastasmylungswillcarryme,managingtogettothefifthfloorwithenoughtimetogo into a serious coughing fit and recover before she exits the elevator anddisappearsaroundacorner.Irubmychest,clearingmythroatandfollowingherdowna coupleofhallways andonto thewide, glass-encasedbridge leading tothenextbuilding.

Even though she just got here thismorning, she clearly knowswhere she’sgoing. Judging from her pace and the fact she apparently knows every singlepersoninthebuilding,Iwouldn’tbesurprisedifshewereactuallythemayorofthisplace.I’vebeenheretwoweeks,andittookmeuntilyesterdaytofigureouthowtosneaksafelyfrommyroomtothecafeteriaoverinBuilding2,andIamby nomeans directionally challenged. I’ve been in somany hospitals over theyears,figuringouthowtogetaroundthemiswhatcountsasahobbytomenow.

She stops short under a set of double doors reading EAST ENTRANCE:NEONATALINTENSIVECAREUNITandpeeksinsidebeforeshepushesthemopen.

TheNICU.

Odd.

Having kids when you have CF falls into the super difficult category. I’veheardofgirlswithCFbumminghardoverit,butgoingtostareatthebabiesshemightneverhaveisawholeotherlevel.

That’sjustfuckingdepressing.

There are a lot of things that pissme off aboutCF, but that’s not one ofthem.PrettymuchallguyswithCFare infertile,whichat leastmeans Idon’thavetoworryaboutgettinganyonepregnantandstartingmyownshitshowofafamily.

BetJasonwisheshehadthatgoingforhimrightnow.

Lookingbothways,Iclosethegapbetweenmeandthedoors,peeringinsidethenarrowwindowto seeher standing in frontof theviewingpane,hereyesfocusedonasmallbaby insidean incubatorontheotherside. Its fragilearmsandlegsarehookeduptomachinestentimesitssize.

Pushingopenthedoorandsliding inside thedimly lithallway, I smileas Iwatch Converse girl for a second. I can’t help but stare at her reflection,everythingbeyondtheglassblurringasIlookather.She’sprettiercloseup,withherlongeyelashesandherfulleyebrows.Sheevenmakesafacemasklookgood.Iwatchasshebrushesherwavy,sandy-brownhairoutofhereyes,staringatthebabythroughtheglasswithadeterminedfocus.

Iclearmythroat,gettingherattention.“AndhereIthoughtthiswasgonnabeanotherlamehospitalfilledwithlamesickies.Butthenyoushowup.Luckyme.”

Hereyesmeetmineinthereflectionoftheglass,surprisefillingthematfirst,and then almost immediately changing to something resembling disgust. Shelooksaway,backatthebaby,stayingsilent.

Well,that’salwaysapromisingsign.Nothinglikeactualrepulsiontostartoffontherightfoot.

“Isawyoumovingintoyourroom.Gonnabehereawhile?”

Shedoesn’tsayanything.Ifitwasn’tforthegrimace,I’dthinkshedidn’tevenhearme.

“Oh,Igetit.I’msogoodlookingyoucan’tevenstringasentencetogether.”

Thatannoysherenoughtogetaresponse.

“Shouldn’t youbeprocuring rooms for your ‘guests’?” she snaps, turning tofacemeassheangrilypullsherfacemaskoff.

Shetakesmeoffguardforasecond,andIlaugh,surprisedbyhowup-frontsheis.

Thatreallypissesheroff.

“Yourentbythehour,orwhat?”sheasks,herdarkeyesnarrowing.

“Ha!Itwasyoulurkinginthehall.”

“Idon’tlurk,”shefiresback.“Youfollowedmehere.”

It’savalidpoint.Butshedefinitelylurkedfirst.Ipretendtobetakenabackandholdupmyhandsinmockdefeat.“Withtheintentofintroducingmyself,butwiththatattitude—”

“Let me guess,” she says, cutting me off. “You consider yourself a rebel.Ignoringtherulesbecauseitsomehowmakesyoufeelincontrol.AmIright?”

“You’renotwrong,”Ishootbackbeforeleaningagainstthewallcasually.

“Youthinkit’scute?”

Igrinather.“Imean,youmustthinkit’sprettyadorable.Youstoodinthehallwayanawfullylongtimestaring.”

She rolls her eyes, clearlynot entertainedbyme. “You letting your friendsborrowyourroomforsexisn’tcute.”

Ah,soshe’sarealgoodytwoshoes.

“Sex?Oh,heavensno.Theytoldmetheywouldbeholdingaslightlyrowdybookclubmeetinginthereforthebetterpartofanhour.”

Sheglaresatme,definitelynotamusedbymysarcasm.

“Ah.Sothat’swhatthisisabout,”Isay,crossingmyarmsovermychest.“Youhavesomethingagainstsex.”

“Ofcoursenot!I’vehadsex,”shesays,hereyeswideningasthewordstumbleoutofhermouth.“It’sfine—”

Thatisthebiggest lieI’veheardallyear,andI’mpracticallysurroundedbypeoplewhosugarcoatthefactthatI’mdying.

I laugh. “ ‘Fine’ isn’t exactly a ringing endorsement, but I’ll take commongroundwhereIcangetit.”

Herthickeyebrowsformafrown.“Wehavenothingincommon.”

Iwink,havingwaytoomuchfunpissingheroff.“Cold.Ilikeit.”

The door bangs open andBarb busts through,making both of us jump insurprise at the sudden noise. “Will Newman! What are you doing up here?You’re not supposed to leave the third floor after that stunt you pulled lastweek!”

I lookbackat thegirl. “Thereyougo.Anametogowithyour littlepsychprofile.Andyouare?”

Sheglowersatme,quicklypullingherfacemaskbackoverhermouthbeforeBarbnotices.“Ignoringyou.”

Goodone.Ms.GoodyTwoShoeshassomespunk.

“Andclearlytheteacher’spet,too.”

“Six feet at all times!Youbothknowthe rules!” I realize I’m tooclose andtake a step back as Barb reaches us, coming into the space and the tensionbetweenus.She turns to lookatme,her eyesnarrowing. “Whatdoyou thinkyou’redoinguphere?”

“Uh,”Isay,pointingattheviewingwindow.“Lookingatbabies?”

She’sclearlynotamused.“Getbacktoyourroom.Whereisyourfacemask?”Ireachup to touchmymaskless face. “Stella, thankyou forkeepingyourmaskon.”

“Shedidn’t fivesecondsago,”Imutter.StellaglaresatmeoverBarb’shead,andIgiveherbackabigsmile.

Stella.

HernameisStella.

IcanseeBarb’sabouttoreallyreammeout,soIdecidetomakemyexit.I’vehadmorethanenoughlecturingforthemoment.

“Lightenup,Stella,” I say, saunteringto thedoor. “It’s just life. It’llbeoverbeforeweknowit.”

Iheadoutthroughthedoors,acrossthebridge,anddownCWing.Insteadofgoingback the longway, I hopon amuch shakier, nonglass elevator,which Idiscoveredtwodaysago.Itspitsmeoutrightbythenurses’stationonmyfloor,whereJulieisreadingoversomepaperwork.

“Hey,Julie,”Isay,leaningonthecounterandpickingupapencil.

She glances up atme, givingme a quick look, before her eyes swing backdowntothepapersinherhands.“Justwhatwereyouupto?”

“Eh,roamingthehospital.PissingoffBarb,”Isay,shruggingandtwirlingthepencilaroundandaroundinmyfingertips.“She’ssuchahard-ass.”

“Will,she’snotahard-ass,she’sjust,youknow...”

Igiveheralook.“Ahard-ass.”

She leansagainst thenurses’ station,puttingahandonher super-pregnantbelly.“Firm.Therulesmatter.EspeciallytoBarb.Shedoesn’ttakechances.”

IglanceovertoseethedoorsattheendofthehallwayswingwideopenagainasBarbandthegoody-goodyherselfstepout.

Barb’seyesnarrowatmeandIshruginnocently.“What?I’mtalkingtoJulie.”

She huffs, and the two of themwalk off down the hallway toward Stella’sroom.Stellafixesherfacemask,lookingbackatme,hereyesmeetingmineforafractionofasecond.

Isigh,watchinghergo.

“Shehatesme.”

“Whichone?”Julieasks,followingmygazedownthehallway.

ThedoortoStella’sroomclosesbehindthebothofthem,andIlookbackatJulie.

ShegivesmealookthatI’veseenaboutamilliontimessinceIgothere.HerblueeyesfillwithamixbetweenAreyoucrazy?andsomethingveryclosetocare.

MostlyAreyoucrazy?though.

“Don’teventhinkaboutit,Will.”

Iglancedownatthefilesittinginfrontofher,thenamejumpingoutatmefromtheupperleft-handcorner.

StellaGrant.

“Okay,”Isaylikeit’snobigdeal.“Night.”

Istrollbackto315,coughingwhenIgetthere,themucusthickinmylungsandthroat,mychestachingfrommyexcursion.IfIhadknownIwasgoingtoberunningahalfmarathonall around thehospital, Imight’vebothered tobringmyportableoxygen.

Eh,whoamIkidding?

I checkmywatch tomake sure it’s been an hour before pushing open thedoor. I flickon the light,noticing a foldednote fromHope and Jasonon thebleach-whitestandard-issuehospitalsheets.

Howromanticofthem.

Itrynottobedisappointedthey’realreadygone.Mymompulledmeoutofschoolandswitchedmetohomeschoolingwithasideofinternationalhospitaltourismwhen I gotdiagnosedwithB. cepacia eightmonths ago.As ifmy lifespanwasn’talreadygoingtoberidiculouslyshort,B.cepaciawillcutoffanotherhugechunkofitbymakingmyshittylungfunctiondepleteevenfasterthanitalready has.And theydon’t give younew lungswhen youhave an antibiotic-resistantbacteriarunningrampantinsideofyou.

But “incurable” isonlya suggestion tomymother,andshe’s determined tofind theneedle-in-a-haystack treatment.Even if itmeans cuttingmeoff fromeveryone.

AtleastthishospitalishalfanhourawayfromHopeandJason,sotheycancome visit me on a regular basis and fill me in on everything I’mmissing atschool. Since I got B. cepacia, I feel like they’re the only ones inmy lifewhodon’t treatme like a lab rat.They’ve always been thatway;maybe that’swhythey’resoperfectforeachother.

Iunfold thenote to seeaheartand, inHope’sneatcursive, “Seeyou soon!TwoweekstillyourBig18!HopeandJason.”Andthatmakesmesmile.

“Big 18.”Twomoreweeks until I’m in charge. I’ll be off this latest clinicaldrugtrialandoutofthishospitalandcandosomethingwithmylife,insteadoflettingmymomwasteit.

Nomore hospitals. Nomore being stuck inside whitewashed buildings allovertheworldasdoctorstrydrugafterdrug,treatmentaftertreatment,noneofthemworking.

IfI’mgoingtodie,I’dliketoactuallylivefirst.

AndthenI’lldie.

Isquintattheheart,thinkingaboutthatfatefullastday.Somewherepoetic.Abeach,maybe.OrarowboatsomewhereinMississippi.Justnowalls.Icouldsketchthelandscape,drawafinalcartoonofmegivingthemiddlefingertotheuniverse,thenbitethebigone.

I toss the note back onto the bed, eyeing the sheets before giving them aquick whiff to be safe. Starch and bleach. Just the regular hospital eau decologne.Good.

I slide into the squeaky leather hospital recliner by the window and pushasideaheapofcoloredpencilsandsketchbooks,grabbingmylaptopfromundera bunch of photocopied 1940s political cartoons I was looking at earlier forreference. IopenmybrowserandtypeStellaGrant intoGoogle,notexpectingmuch.SheseemslikethetypetohaveonlythemostprivateofFacebookpages.OralameTwitteraccountwheresheretweetsmemesabouttheimportanceofhandwashing.

Thefirstresult,though,isaYouTubepagecalledStellaGrant’sNot-So-SecretCF Diary, filled with at least a hundred videos dating back six years or so. I

squint,because thepagename looksweirdly familiar.Ohmygod, this is thatlamechannelmymomsentmealinktoafewmonthsagoinanattempttorallymeintotakingmytreatmentsseriously.

MaybeifI’dknownshelookedlikethat...

I scroll down to the first entry, clicking on a videowith a thumbnail of ayoungStellawearingamouthfulofmetalandahighponytail.Itrynottolaugh.Iwonderwhatherteethlooklikenow,consideringI’veneverseenhersmile.

Probablyprettynice. She seems like the typewhowould actuallywearherretaineratnightinsteadoflettingitcollectdustonsomebathroomshelf.

Idon’tthinkmineevenmadeithomefromtheorthodontist.

Ihitthevolumebuttonandhervoicecomespouringoutofmyspeakers.

“LikeallCFers,Iwasbornterminal.Ourbodiesmaketoomuchmucus,andthatmucus likes to get into our lungs and cause infections,making our lungfunction de-teri-orate.” The young girl stumbles over the big word beforeflashingthecameraabigsmile.“Rightnow,I’matfiftypercentlungfunction.”

There’sacrappycut,andsheturnsaroundonasetofstairsthatIrecognizefromthemainentranceofthehospital.Nowondersheknowsherwayaroundheresowell.She’sbeencominghereforever.

IsmilebackatthelittlegirleventhoughthatcutwasthecheesiestthingI’veeverseen.Shesitsdownonthesteps,takingadeepbreath.“Dr.Hamidsays,atthis rate, I’m gonna need a transplant by the time I’m in high school. Atransplant’snotacure,butitwillgivememoretime!I’dloveafewmoreyearsifI’mluckyenoughtogetone!”

Tellmeaboutit,Stella.

Atleastshe’sgotashot.

CHAPTER3

STELLA

IpullontheblueAffloVest, snapping it intoplacearoundmytorsowithBarb’shelp.It looksanawful lot likea lifevest,exceptfortheremotecomingout of it. For the quickestmoment I let it be a life vest, and I stare out thewindow, picturing myself in Cabo on a boat with Mya and Camila, theafternoonsunglowingonthehorizon.

Theseagullschirping,thesandybeachinthedistance,theshirtlesssurfers—andthen,despitemyself,IthinkofWill.Iblink,Cabofadingawayasthebarrentreesoutsidemywindowswingintoview.

“So,Will.He’saCFer,then?”Iask,thoughthat’sobvious.Barbhelpsmeclipthelaststrapintoplace.Ipullattheshoulderofthevestsoitdoesn’trubintomybonycollarbone.

“A CFer and then some. B. cepacia. He’s part of the new drug trial forCevaflomalin.”Shereachesover,flickingthemachineonandgivingmealook.

MyeyeswidenandIlookoveratmygianttubofhandsanitizer.IwasthatclosetohimandhehasB.cepacia?It’sprettymuchadeathsentenceforpeoplewithCF.He’llbeluckytomakeitafewmoreyears.

Andthat’sifhe’sasdedicatedtohisregimenasIam.

Thevestbeginsvibrating.Hard.Icanfeelthemucusinmylungsstartingtoslowlyloosen.

“Youcontractthatandyoucankiss thepossibilityofnewlungsgood-bye,”sheadds,eyeingme.“Stayaway.”

Inod.Oh, I fully intendtodo just that. Ineedthatextratime.Besides,hewaswaytoofullofhimselftobemytype.“Thetrial,”Istarttosay,lookingover

atBarbandholdingupmyhandtopausetheconversationasIcoughupawadofmucus.

Shenodsinapprovalandhandsmeastandard-issuepale-pinkbedpan.Ispitintoitandwipemymouthbeforetalking.

“Whatarehisodds?”

Barbexhales,shakingherheadbeforemeetingmygaze.“Nobodyknows.Thedrug’stoonew.”

Her look says it all, though.We fall silent except for the chugging of themachine,thevestvibratingaway.

“You’reset.NeedanythingbeforeIhittheroad?”

Igrinather,givingherapleadinglook.“Amilkshake?”

Sherollshereyes,puttingherhandsonherhips. “What,amIroomservicenow?”

“Gottatakeadvantageoftheperks,Barb!”Isay,whichmakesherlaugh.

She leaves,andIsitback,theAffloVestmakingmywholebodyshakeas itworks. My mind wanders, and I picture Will’s reflection in the glass of theNICU,standingjustbehindmewithadaringsmileonhisface.

B.cepacia.That’srough.

Butwalkingaroundthehospitalwithoutamaskon?It’snowonderhegotitinthefirstplace,pullingstuntslikethat.I’veseenhistypeinthehospitalmoretimes than I can count.The careless,Braveheart type, rebelling in a desperateattempt to defy their diagnosis before it all comes to an end. It’s not evenoriginal.

“All right,” Barb says, bringing me not one but two milk shakes, like thequeensheis.“Thisshouldholdyouoverforabit.”

Sheputsthemonthetablenexttome,andIsmileupatherfamiliardark-browneyes.“Thanks,Barb.”

Shenods,touchingmyheadgentlybeforeheadingoutthedoor.“Night,baby.Seeyoutomorrow.”

Isit,staringoutthewindowandcoughingupmoreandmoremucusasthevestdoesitsjobtoclearmyairways.Myeyestraveltothedrawingofthelungsand the picture hanging next to it.My chest starts to hurt in away that has

nothingtodowiththetreatmentasIthinkofmyrealbed.Myparents.Abby.Ipickupmyphoneto seea text frommydad. It’sapictureofhisoldacousticguitar, leaning against awornnightstand inhis new apartment.He spent thewhole day setting it up after I insisted he do that instead of takeme to thehospital.Hepretendednottoberelieved,justlikeIpretendedMomwastakingmesohewouldn’tfeelguilty.

It’sbeenalotofpretendingsincethemostridiculousdivorceofalltime.

It’sbeensixmonthsandtheystillcan’tevenlookateachother.

For some reason itmakesmewant tohearhis voice sobadly. I taponhiscontactinfoandalmostpressthegreencallbuttononmyphone,butdecidenotto at the last second. I never call the first day, and all the coughing that theAffloVestmakesme dowouldmake him nervous.He’s still textingme everyhourtocheckin.

Idon’twanttoworrymyparents.Ican’t.

Bettertojustwaituntilmorning.

***

MyeyesshootopenthenextmorningandIlookforwhatwokeme,seeingmyphonevibratingnoisilyonthefloor,havingfree-fallenoffthetable.Isquintatthe drained milkshake glasses and mound of empty chocolate pudding cupstakinguppracticallytheentirespace.Nowonderthephonefelloff.

Ifwe’re60percentwater,I’mclosinginontheremaining40percentbeingpudding.

Igroan, reachingover thebed tograbmyphone,myG-tubeburningwiththestretch.Igentlytouchmyside,liftingmyshirttounhookthetube,surprisedthattheskinarounditisevenredderandmoreinflamedthanitwasbefore.

That’snotgood.Irritationsusuallygoawaywitha littlebitofFucidin,butmyapplicationyesterdaydidn’tseemtomakeadifference.

Iputabiggergloboftheointmentonit,hopingthatwillclearitup,andaddanotetomyto-dolisttomonitorit,beforescrollingthroughmynotifications.IhaveacoupleofSnapswaitingfromMyaandCamila,lookingsleepybuthappyastheyboardedtheplanethismorning.Bothofmyparentstextedme,checkingintoseehowIslept,ifI’msettledin,andsayingtogivethemacallwhenIgetup.

I’mabouttoanswerthebothofthemwhenmyphonevibrates,andIswiperighttoseeatextfromPoe:Youup?

Ishootbackaquickmessageseeingifhewantstohaveourusualbreakfastdate intwenty,beforeputtingthephonedownandswingingmy legsovermybedtograbmylaptop.

Lessthanasecondlatermyphonebuzzeswithhisreply:Yees!

Igrin,hittingthenurse-callbuttonbymybed.Julie’sfriendlyvoicecracklesthroughthespeaker.“Morning,Stella!Yougood?”

“Yep.CanIgetbreakfastnow?”Iask,turningmylaptopon.

“Yougotit!”

The time on my laptop reads 9:00 a.m., and I pull the med cart closer,looking at the color-coded clumps I laid out yesterday. I smile to myself,realizingthatthistimetomorrow,afterIgetthebetaversionofmyappfullyupand running, I’ll be getting anotificationonmyphone tellingme to takemymorningpillsandtheexactdosagesofeachthatIneed.

Almostayearofhardworkfinallycomingtogether.Anappforallchronicillnesses,completewithmedcharts,schedules,anddosageinformation.

ItakemypillsandopenSkype,scanningthecontactlisttoseeifeitherofmyparentsison.There’satinygreendotnexttomydad’sname,andIpressthecallbutton,waitingasitringsnoisily.

Hisfaceappearsonthescreenasheputshisthick-rimglassesoverhistiredeyes.Inoticethathe’sstill inhispajamas,hisgrayinghairjuttingoutineverydirection,alumpypillowproppedupbehindhim.Dadwasalwaysanearlyriser.Outofbedbeforeseventhirtyeverymorning,evenontheweekends.

Theworrystartstoslowlywrapitselftighteraroundmyinsides.

“Youneedashave,”Isay,takingintheunusualstubblecoveringhischin.He’salwaysbeencleanshaven,exceptforabeardphasehewentthroughonewinterduringelementaryschool.

Hechuckles,rubbinghisscruffychin.“Youneednewlungs.Micdrop!”

Irollmyeyesashelaughsathisownjoke.“Howwasthegig?”

Heshrugs.“Eh,youknow.”

“I’m glad you’re performing again!” I say cheerily, trying my best to lookpositiveforhim.

“Sorethroatdoingokay?”heasks,givingmeaworriedlook.

I nod, swallowing to confirm that the rawness inmy throat has started tosubside. “Alreadyamilliontimesbetter!”Relieffillshiseyes,andIchangethesubjectquicklybeforehecanaskanymoretreatment-relatedquestions.“How’syournewapartment?”

Hegivesmeanover-the-topsmile.“It’sgreat!It’sgotabedandabathroom!”Hissmilefadesslightly,andheshrugs.“Andnotmuchelse.I’msureyourmom’splaceisnicer.Shecouldalwaysmakeanywherefeellikehome.”

“Maybeifyoujustcallher—”

He shakes his head atme and cutsme off. “Moving on. Seriously, it’s fine,hun.Theplaceisgreat,andI’vegotyouandmyguitar!WhatelsedoIneed?”

My stomach clenches, but there’s a knock onmy door and Julie comes in,holdingadark-greentraywithapileoffood.

Mydadseesherandbrightensup.“Julie!How’veyoubeen?”

Julie puts down the tray and presents her belly to him. For someonewhoinsisted for the past five years that she was never having children, she seemsridiculouslyeagertobehavingchildren.

“Verybusy,Isee,”mydadsays,smilingwide.

“Talktoyoulater,Dad,”Isay,movingmycursorovertotheend-callbutton.“Loveyou.”

Hegivesmeasalutebeforethechatends.Thesmellofeggsandbaconwaftsofftheplate,agiantchocolatemilkshakesittingonthetraynexttoit.

“Needanythingelse,Stell?Somecompany?”

Iglanceatherbabybump,shakingmyheadasasurprisingswellofcontemptfillsmychest.IloveJulie,butI’mreallynotinthemoodfortalkingabouthernewlittlefamilywhenmine’sfallingapart.“Poe’sabouttocallme.”

Rightontime,mylaptoppingsandPoe’spicturepopsup,thegreenphonesymbolappearingonmyscreen.Julierubsherstomach,givingmeastrangelookbeforeflashingmeatight-lipped,confusedsmile.“Okay.Youtwohavefun!”

IpressacceptandPoe’sfaceslowlycomesintoview,histhickblackeyebrowshangingoverfamiliarwarmbrowneyes.He’sgottenahaircutsincethelasttimeIsawhim.Shorter.Cleaner.Hegivesmeabigear-to-earsmile,andIattempttogrinback,butitendsuplookingmorelikeagrimace.

Ican’tgettheimageofmydadoutofmyhead.Sosadandalone,inbed,butthelinesofhisfacestilldeepandfilledwithexhaustion.

AndIcan’tevengocheckonhim.

“Hey,mami!YouarelookingWORN,”hesays,puttinghismilkshakedownandsquintingatme.“Yougoononeofyourchocolatepuddingbendersagain?”

Iknowthis iswhereI’msupposedto laugh,butIseemtohaveusedupmypretendingquotafortheday,andit’snotevenninethirtyyet.

Poefrowns.“Uh-oh.What’swrong?IsitCabo?Youknowsunburnisnothingtoplaywithanyway.”

Iwave that away and instead hold upmy tray like a game-showmodel toshowPoemylumberjackbreakfast.Eggs,bacon,potatoes,andamilkshake!Theusualforourbreakfastdates.

Poegivesmeachallenginglook,likeI’mnotgettingawaywiththatsubjectchange,buthecan’tresistholdinguphisplatetoshowmetheidenticalmeal—excepthiseggsarebeautifullyembellishedwithchives,parsley,and...Wait.

Freakingtruffles!

“Poe!Wherethehelldidyougettruffles?”

Heraiseshiseyebrows,smirking.“Yougottabring’emwith,mija!”hesaysashemovesthewebcamtoshowmeamedcartthathe’sconvertedintoaperfectlyorganized spice rack. It’s filled with jars and specialty items instead of pillbottles, sitting under his shrine to his favorite skateboarder, Paul Rodriguez,and the entire Colombian national soccer team. Classic Poe. Food,skateboarding,andfútbolarebyFARhisthreefavoritethings.

Hehas enough jerseyspinneduponhiswall to fully clothe everyCFeronthisfloorforapoor-playing,no-cardiovascular-strengthB-team.

Thecameraswingsbacktohim,andIseeGordonRamsay’schestpeeringoutfrombehindhim. “But first—ourappetizers!”HeholdsupahandfulofCreontablets,whichwillhelpourbodiesdigestthefoodwe’reabouttoeat.

“Best part of every meal!” I say sarcastically as I scoop my red-and-whitetabletsoutofasmallplasticcupnexttomytray.

“So,” Poe says after he’s swallowed his last one. “Since youwon’t spill, let’stalkaboutme.I’msingle!Readyto—”

“YoubrokeupwithMichael?”Iask,exasperated.“Poe!”

Poetakesalongsipofhismilkshake.“Maybehebrokeupwithme.”

“Didhe?”

“Yes! Well, it was mutual,” he says, before sighing and shaking his head.“Whatever.Ibrokeupwithhim.”

Ifrown.Theywereperfectforeachother.Michael likedskateboardingandhadasuper-popularfoodblogthatPoehadfollowedreligiouslyforthreeyearsbeforetheymet.HewasdifferentfromtheotherpeoplePoehaddated.Older,somehow,eventhoughhehadjustturnedeighteen.Mostimportantly,Poewasdifferentwithhim.“Youreallylikedhim,Poe.Ithoughthemightbetheone.”

But I should know better; Poe could write a book on commitment issues.Still, that never stopped him on the quest for another great romance. BeforeMichaelitwasTim,theweekafterthisitcouldbeDavid.And,tobehonest,Ienvyhimabit,withhiswildromances.

I’veneverbeeninlovebefore.TylerPaulforsuredidn’tcount.ButevenifIhad the chance, dating is a risk that I can’t afford right now. I have to stayfocused. Keep myself alive. Get my transplant. Reduce parental misery. It’sprettymuchafull-timejob.Anddefinitelynotasexyone.

“Well, he’s not,” Poe says, acting like it’s no big deal. “Screw him anyway,right?”

“Hey,atleastyougottodothat,”Isay,shruggingasIpickatmyeggs.IcanseeWill’s knowing smirk from yesterdaywhen I told him I’d had sex before.Asshole.

Poelaughsmidsipofhismilkshake,buthesputtersandbeginstochoke.Hisvitalmonitorsstartbeepingontheothersideofthe laptopashestruggles forbreath.

Ohmygod.No,no,no.Ijumpup.“Poe!”

Ipushaside the laptopandrun into thehallwayasanalarmsoundsat thenurses’ station, fear in every pore ofmybody. Somewhere a voice shouts out,

“Room310!Bloodoxygenlevelisinfreefall.He’sdesatting!”

Desatting.Hecan’tbreathe,hecan’tbreathe.“He’schoking!Poe’schoking!”Ishoutout,tearsfillingmyeyesasIflydownthehallwaybehindJulie,pullingonafacemaskasIgo.Sheburststhroughthedooraheadofmeandgoestocheckthe beepingmonitor. I’m scared to look. I’m scared to see Poe suffering. I’mscaredtoseePoe...

Fine.

He’sfine,sittinginhischairlikenothinghappened.

RelieffloodsthroughmeandIbreakoutinacoldsweatashelooksfrommeto Julie, a sheepish expression on his face as he holds up his fingertip sensor.“Sorry!Itcameunplugged.Ididn’ttapeitbackdownaftermyshower.”

Iexhaleslowly,realizingI’vebeenholdingmybreaththiswholetime.Whichisprettyhardtodowhenyouhavelungsthatbarelywork.

Julieleansagainstthewall,lookingjustasshockedasIam.“Poe.Jeez.WhenyourO2dropslikethat...”Sheshakesherhead.“Justputitbackon.”

“Idon’tneed it anymore, Jules,” he says, lookingup ather. “Letme take itoff.”

“Absolutelynot.Yourlungfunctionsucksrightnow.We’vegottakeepaneyeon you, so you need to keep that damn thing on.” She takes a deep breath,holdingoutapieceoftapesohecantapethesensorbackon.“Please.”

He sighs loudly but reattaches the fingertip sensor to the blood-oxygensensorwornonhiswrist.

Inod,finallycatchingmybreath.“Iagree,Poe.Keepiton.”

Heglancesupatmeashetapesthesensorontohismiddlefinger,holdingituptomeandgrinning.

Irollmyeyesathim,glancingdownthehallwaytotheasshole’sroom:315.The door is tightly closed despite the commotion, a light shining out fromunder it.He’s not even going to poke his head out tomake sure everybody’sokay? This was practically a floor roll call, as everyone opened their door todouble-check that everything was fine. I fidget and smooth my hair down,lookingbackoveratPoeintimetoseehimraisehiseyebrowsatme.

“What,youtryingtolookgoodforsomeone?”

“Don’tberidiculous.”IglareathimandJulieastheyshootcuriouslooksinmydirection. I point at his food. “You’re about towaste someperfectly goodtrufflesonabunchofcoldeggs,”Isay,beforehurryingoffdownthehallwaytofinishourbreakfastchat.Themorespacebetweenroom315andmethebetter.

CHAPTER4

WILL

I rubmyeyes sleepily, clicking on another video,my half-eaten tray ofeggs and bacon sitting cold on the table next to me. I’ve been up all nightwatchinghervideos,oneaftertheother.It’sbeenaStellaGrantmarathon,evenwiththelameCFcontent.

Scanningthesidebar,Iclickonthenextone.

Thisone’sfromlastyear,thelightingridiculouslydark,exceptforthebrightflashofherphone’scamera.Itlookslikeafundraisingevent,heldatadimlylitbar. There’s a huge banner dangling over a stage reading: SAVE THE PLANET—SUPPORTEARTHDAY.

Thecamerafocusesonamanplayinganacousticguitar,sittingcasuallyonawoodenstool,whileacurly-brown-hairedgirlsings.IrecognizethembothfromallthevideosI’vewatched.

Stella’sdadandhersister,Abby.

Theview spinsontoStella, abig smileonher face, her teeth aswhite andeven as I predicted. She’s wearing makeup, and I cough in surprise at howdifferentshelooks.It’snotthemakeup,though.She’shappier.Calmer.Notlikeshe’sbeeninperson.

Eventhenosecannulalooksgoodonherwhenshesmileslikethat.

“DadandAbby!Stealingtheshow!IfIdiebeforeI’mtwenty-one,atleastI’vebeen inabar.”Sheswingsthecameratoshowanolderwomanwiththesamelongbrownhairsittingnexttoherinabright-redbooth.“Sayhi,Mom!”

Thewomanwaves,givingthecameraabiggrin.

AwaitresspassesbytheirtableandStellawavesherdown.“Ah,yes.I’lltakeabourbon,please.Neat.”

Isnortashermom’svoicescreamsouta“No,shewon’t!”

“Ahh,nicetry,Stella,”Isay,laughingasabrightlightcomeson,illuminatingtheirfaces.

The song in the background ends and Stella begins clapping manically,turningthecameratoshowhersister,Abby,smilingatherfromthestage.

“So, my little sister, Stella, is here tonight,” she says, pointing directly atStella.“Asiffightingforherownlifeisn’tenough,she’sgoingtosavetheplanet,too!Comeshow’emwhatchagot,Stella!”

Stella’svoicecomesthroughmyspeakers,confusedandshocked.“Uh,didyouguysplanthis?”

Thecameraswingsbacktohermom,whogrins.Yep.

“Goon,baby.I’llfilmit!”hermomsays,andeverythingswingsoutoffocusasStellahandsoverthephone.

Everyone in the roomcheers as shepullsherportableoxygenconcentratorontothestage,hersister,Abby,helpinghermaneuverupthestepsandintothespotlight.Sheadjustshercannulanervouslyasherdadhandsheramicrophone,before she turns to thecrowdandspeaks. “This isa first forme. In frontofacrowd,anyway.Don’tlaugh!”

So,naturally,everyonelaughs,includingStella.Only,herlaughisfilledwithnerves.

She looks over at her sister warily. Abby says something to her that themicrophonejustbarelypicksup.

“Bushelandapeck.”

Whatdoesthatmean?

It works, though, and likemagic the nervousnessmelts away from Stella’sface.

HerdadstartstostrumawayathisguitarandIhumalongbeforemybraineven consciously registers what they’re singing. Everyone in the audience isswayingalongtoo,headsmovingleftandright,feettappingwiththebeat.

“NowI’veheardtherewasasecretchord...”

Wow.Theybothcansing.

Hersisterisrockingthisclearandstrongandpowerfulvoice,whileStella’sisbreathyandsoft,smoothinalltherightways.

I hit pause as the camera closes in on Stella’s face, all her features comingalive in the glow of the spotlight. Carefree, and smiling, and happy, up thereonstagenexttohersisterandherdad.Iwonderwhatmadeherso . . .uptightyesterday.

Irunmyfingersthroughmyhair,takinginherlonghair,theshadowofhercollarbone,thewayherbrowneyesshinewhenshesmiles.Heradrenalinegivesherfaceatwingeofcolor,hercheeksabright,exhilaratedpink.

Notgonnalie.She’spretty.

Reallypretty.

Ilookawayand—waitasecond.There’snoway.Ihighlightthenumberwithmycursor.

“Ahundredthousandviews?Areyoukiddingme?”

Whoisthisgirl?

***

Not even an hour later, my first post-all-nighter nap was interrupted by ablaringalarmdownthehall,andthenmysecondattemptwasfoiledlaterbymymomandDr.Hamidbustingintomyroomforaneveningvisit.Bored,Istifleayawnandstareoutattheemptycourtyard,thecoldwindsandtheforecastofsnowdrivingeveryoneinside.

Snow.Atleastthat’ssomethingtolookforwardto.

I rest my head against the cool glass, eager for the world outside to becovered in ablanket ofwhite. I haven’t touched snow since the first timemymomshippedmeofftoatop-of-the-linetreatmentfacilitytobeaguineapigforan experimental drug to fight B. cepacia. It was in Sweden, and they’d beenperfectingthisthingforhalfadecade.

Clearly, it wasn’t “perfected” enough, because I was out of there and backhomeinabouttwoweeksflat.

At this point I don’t remembermuch from that particular stay. The onlythingIrememberfrommostofmyhospitaltripsiswhite.Whitehospitalsheets,white walls, white lab coats, all running together. But I do remember the

mountainsandmountainsof snowthat fellwhile Iwas there, the samewhite,onlybeautiful, lesssterile.Real. I’dbeendreamingofgoingskiingintheAlps,lungfunctionbedamned.ButtheonlysnowIgottotouchwasontheroofofmymom’sMercedesrental.

“Will,”mymother’svoicesays,sternly,cuttingrightthroughmydaydreamoffreshpowder.“Areyoulistening?”

Isshekidding?

IturnmyheadtolookatherandDr.Hamid,andnodlikeabobbleheadeventhoughIhaven’theardasinglewordthisentiretime.They’regoingovermyfirsttest results since I started the trial a week or so ago, and as usual, nothing’schanged.

“Weneedtobepatient,”Dr.Hamidsays.“Thefirstphaseofclinicaltrialsonhumansstarted justeighteenmonthsago.” Ieyemymother,watchinghernodeagerly,hershortblondbobmovingupanddownatthedoctor’swords.

Iwonderhowmanystringsshehadtopullandhowmuchmoneyshehadtothrowawaytogetmeintothis.

“We’re monitoring him, butWill needs to help us. He needs to keep thevariablesinhislifetoaminimum.”Hereyesfocusonme,herthinfaceserious.“Will.Therisksofcross-infectionareevenhighernowso—”

Icutheroff.“Don’tcoughonanyotherCFers.Gotit.”

Herblackeyebrowsjutdownasshefrowns.“Don’tgetcloseenoughtotouchthem.Fortheirsafety,andyours.”

Iholdupmyhandinmockpledge,recitingwhatcouldprobablybetheCFmottobythispoint,“Sixfeetatalltimes.”

Shenods.“Yougotit.”

“WhatI’vegotisB.cepacia,makingthisconversationnullandvoid.”That’snotgoingtochangeanytimesoon.

“Nothingisimpossible!”Dr.Hamidsaysenthusiastically.Mymomeats thislineup.“Ibelievethat.Youneedtobelieveittoo.”

I pair an over-the-top smile with a thumbs-up, before turning it into athumbs-down and shaking my head, the smile slipping off my face. It’s suchbullshit.

Dr.Hamid clears her throat, looking atmymom. “Right. I’ll leave this toyou.”

“Thank you,Dr.Hamid,”mymom says, shaking her hand eagerly, like shejustmanagedtosignacontractforhermostburdensomeclient.

Dr.Hamidgivesmeafinalthin-lippedsmilebeforeleaving.Mymomspinsaroundtolookatme,herblueeyespiercing,voicebiting.“Ittookalotofefforttogetyouintothisprogram,Will.”

If by “effort” shemeanswriting a check that could send a small village tocollege,thenshedefinitelyputinquiteabitofeffortjustsoIcouldbeahumanpetridish.

“Whatdoyouwant?Athank-youforshovingmeinanotherhospital,wastingmore ofmy time?” I stand up,walking over to face her. “In twoweeks I’ll beeighteen.Alegaladult.Youwon’tholdthereinsanymore.”

Fora secondshe looks takenaback, thenhereyesnarrowatme.ShegrabsherlatestPradatrenchcoatoffthechairbythedoor,pullingitonandglancingbacktolookatme.“I’llseeyouonyourbirthday.”

I lean out the doorway, watching her go, her heels clicking off down thehallway. She stops at thenurses’ station,whereBarb is flipping through somepapers.

“Barb,right?Letmegiveyoumycell,”Ihearhersayassheopensherpurse,grabbingherwalletfrominside.“IftheCevaflomalindoesn’twork,Willmay...becomeahandful.”

WhenBarbdoesn’tsayanything,shepullsabusinesscardoutofherwallet.“He’s been disappointed so many times already, and he’s expecting to bedisappointedagain.Ifhe’snotcomplying,you’llcallme?”

SheflicksthebusinesscardontothecounterbeforetossingahundredontopofitlikethisissomefancyrestaurantandI’matablethatneedstobefawnedover.Wow.That’sjustgreat.

Barbstaresatthemoney,raisinghereyebrowsatmymother.

“Thatwasinappropriate,wasn’tit?I’msorry.We’vebeentosomany...”

Her voice trails off, and I watch as Barb takes the business card and themoney off the counter, meeting my mother’s gaze with the same look ofdeterminationshegivesmewhenshe’sforcingmetotakesomemedicine.“Don’t

worry.He’s in good hands.” She presses the hundred back into my mother’shand,pocketingthebusinesscardandlookingpastmymothertomeetmyeyes.

Iduckbackinsidemyroom,closingthedoorbehindmeandtuggingattheneckofmyT-shirt.Ipaceovertothewindow,andthenbackovertositdownonmybed,andthenbackovertothewindow,pushingbacktheblindsasthewallsstarttocloseinonme.

Ineedtogetoutside.Ineedairthat’snotfilledwithantiseptic.

Ithrowopenmyclosetdoortograbahoodie,pullingitonandpeeringoutatthenurses’stationtoseeifthecoastisclear.

No signofBarbormymomanymore,but Julie’s on thephonebehind thedesk, in betweenme and the exit door thatwill takeme straight to the onlystairwellinthisbuildingthatleadstotheroof.

I closemydoor quietly, creepingdown the hall. I try to duckdown lowerthanthenurses’ station,buta six-footdudeattempting to stay lowandsneakaroundisaboutassubtleasablindfoldedelephant. Julie looksupatmeandIpressmybackup against thewall, pretending to camouflagemyself.Her eyesnarrow atme as shemoves the phone away from hermouth. “Where do youthinkyou’regoing?”

Imimewalkingwithmyfingers.

She shakes her head atme, knowing I’ve been confined to the third floorsince I fell asleep by the vendingmachines over in Building 2 last week andcaused a hospital-widemanhunt. I putmyhands together,making a pleadingmotion and hoping the desperation pouring out ofmy soulwill convince herotherwise.

Atfirst,nothing.Herfaceremainsfirm,hergazeunchanging.Thensherollshereyes,throwingmeafacemaskbeforewavingmealongtofreedom.

Thank god. I need to get out of this whitewashed hell more than I needanything.

Igiveherawink.Atleastshe’sactuallyhuman.

IleavetheCFwing,pushingopentheheavydoortothestairwellandtakingthe concrete steps by twos even though my lungs are burning after just onefloor.Coughing,Ipullatthemetalrailing,pastthefourthfloor,andthefifth,andthensixth,finallycomingtoabigreddoorwithahugenoticestampedontoit:EMERGENCYEXIT.ALARMWILLSOUNDWHENDOORISOPENED.

Igrabmywalletfrommybackpocket,takingoutatightlyfoldeddollarthatIkeep inthere formoments likethese. Ireachupandwedgethebill intotheframe’s alarm switch so the alarm doesn’t go off, then I open the door just acrackandslidethroughontotherooftop.

ThenIbenddowntoputmywalletinbetweenthedoorandthejambsoitdoesn’tslamshutbehindme.I’velearnedthatlessonthehardwaybefore.

MymomwouldhaveaheartattackifshesawIwasusingtheLouisVuittonwalletshegotmeafewmonthsagoasadoorstop,butitwasastupidgifttogivesomeonewhonevergoesanywherebuthospitalcafeterias.

Atleastasadoorstopitgetsused.

I stand up, taking a deep breath and automatically coughing as the cold,harshwinterairshocksmylungs.Itfeelsgood,though,tobeoutside.Tonotbetrappedinsidemonochromewalls.

I stretch, looking up at the pale-gray sky, the predicted snowflakes finallydriftingslowlythroughtheairandlandingonmycheeksandhair.Iwalkslowlytotheroof’sedgeandtakeaseatontheicystone,danglingmylegsofftheside.IexhaleabreathIfeellikeI’vebeenholdingsinceIgotheretwoweeksago.

Everything’sbeautifulfromuphere.

NomatterwhathospitalIgoto,Ialwaysmakeitapointtofindawaytogettotheroof.

I’ve seen parades from the one in Brazil, the people looking like brightlycoloredantsastheydancedthroughthestreets,wildandfree.I’veseenFrancesleep, theEiffelTower shiningbrightly in thedistance, lightsquietly shuttingoff in third-floor apartments, themoondrifting lazily into view. I’ve seen thebeachesinCalifornia,waterthatgoesonformilesandmiles,peoplebaskingintheperfectwavesfirstthinginthemorning.

Every place is different. Every place is unique. It’s the hospitals I’m seeingthemfromthatarethesame.

This town isn’t the life of theparty, but it feels sort of back-roadshomey.Maybe that shouldmakeme feel more comfortable, but it’s only makingmemorerestless.Probablybecauseforthefirsttimeineightmonths,I’macarrideaway fromhome.Home.WhereHopeand Jasonare.Wheremyoldclassmatesareslowlychuggingtheirwaytofinals,shootingforwhateverIvyLeagueschool

theirparentsselectedforthem.Wheremybedroom,myfreakinglife,really,sitsemptyandunlivedin.

I watch the headlights of the cars driving past on the road next to thehospital, the twinklingholiday lights in thedistance, the laughingkids slidingaroundontheicypondnexttoasmallpark.

There’ssomethingsimpleinthat.Afreedomthatmakesmyfingertipsitch.

I rememberwhen that used tobeme and Jason, sliding aroundon the icyponddownthestreetfromhishouse,thecoldsinkingdeepintoourbonesasweplayed. We’d be out there for hours, having contests to see who could slidefartherwithoutfalling,chuckingsnowballsateachother,makingsnowangels.

Wemadethemostofeveryminuteuntilmymominevitablyshowedupanddraggedmebackinside.

Thelightsflickoninthehospitalcourtyard,andIglancedowntoseeagirlsitting inside her roomon the third floor, typing away on a laptop, a pair ofheadphonessittingovertopherearsassheconcentratesonherscreen.

Waitasecond.

Isquint.Stella.

Thecoldwindtugsatmyhair,andIputmyhoodup,watchingherfaceasshetypes.

Whatcouldshepossiblybeworkingon?It’saSaturdaynight.

ShewassodifferentinthevideosIwatched.Iwonderwhatchanged.Isitallof this? All of the hospital stuff? The pills and the treatments and thosewhitewashedwallsthatpushinonyouandsuffocateyouslowly,daybyday.

Istandup,balancingontheedgeoftheroof,andpeeratthecourtyardsevenstories down, just for a moment imagining the weightlessness, the absoluteabandon of the fall. I see Stella look up through the glass and we make eyecontactjustasastronggustofwindknockstheairrightoutofme.Itrytotakeabreathtogetitback,butmyshittylungsbarelytakeinanyoxygen.

WhatairIdogetcatchesinmythroatandIstarttocough.Hard.

Myribcagescreamsaseachcoughpullsmoreandmoreairfrommylungs,myeyesstartingtowater.

Finally,Istarttogetcontrolofit,but—

Myheadswims,theedgesofmyvisiongoingblack.

Istumble,freakedout,whippingmyheadaroundandtryingtofocusontheredexitdoororthegroundoranything.Istareatmyhands,willingtheblacktoclear away, theworld to comeback into view,knowing theopenair over theedgeoftheroofisstillbarelyaninchaway.

CHAPTER5

STELLA

Islamopenthedoortothestairwell,buttoningmyjacketasIbookitupthestepstotheroof.Myheartispoundingsoloudinmyears,IcanbarelyhearmyfootstepsunderneathmeasIrunupthesteps.

Hehastobecrazy.

I keep picturing him standing there at the edge of the roof, about toplummetsevenstoriestohisdeath,fearpaintedontoeveryfeatureofhisface.Nothinglikehispreviousconfidentsmirk.

Wheezing,Imakeitpastthefifthfloor,stoppingjustamomenttocatchmybreath, my sweaty palms grabbing at the cool metal railing. I peer up thestairwell to the top floor,myhead spinning,my sore throat burning. I didn’tevenhavetimetograbmyportableoxygen.Justtwomorestories.Twomore.Iforcemyself tokeepclimbing,my feetmovingon command: right, left, right,left,right,left.

Finallythedoortotheroofisinsight,crackedopenunderabrightredalarmjustreadytogooff.

Ihesitate,lookingfromthealarmtothedoorandbackagain.Butwhydidn’titgooffwhenWillopenedit?Isitbroken?

Then I see it. A folded dollar bill holding down the switch, stopping thealarm fromblaring and letting everyone in the hospital know some crazy guywithcysticfibrosisandself-destructivetendenciesishangingoutontheroof.

Ishakemyhead.Hemightbecrazy,butthat’sclever.

Thedoorisproppedopenwithawallet,andIpushthroughitasquicklyasIcan,making sure thedollar bill stays securely in place over the switch. I stopdead, catching a real breath for the first time in forty-eight stairs. Looking

acrosstheroof,I’mrelievedtoseehe’smovedasafedistanceawayfromtheedgeandhasn’t fallen tohisdeath.Heturns to lookatmeas Iwheeze,a surprisedexpressiononhisface.Ipullmyredscarfcloserasthecoldairbitesatmyfaceand neck, looking down to see if his wallet is still wedged in the doorjambbeforestormingovertohim.

“Do you have a deathwish?” I shout, stopping amore-than-safe eight feetawayfromhim.Hemayhaveone,butIcertainlydon’t.

His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, and a thin layer of snow hascollected on his wavy brown hair and the hood of his burgundy sweatshirt.Whenhelookslikethat,Icanalmostpretendhe’snotsuchanidiot.

Butthenhestartstalkingagain.

Heshrugsatme,casually,motioningovertheedgeoftherooftothegroundbelow.“Mylungsaretoast.SoI’mgoingtoenjoytheviewwhileIcan.”

Howpoetic.

WhydidIexpectanythingdifferent?

Ipeerpasthimtoseethetwinklingcityskylinefar,farinthedistance,theholidaylightscoveringeveryinchofeverytree,brighternowthanI’veeverseenthemastheybringtheparkbelowbacktolife.Someareevenstrungacrossthetrees, creating thismagical pathway you couldwalk under, headback,mouthagape.

InallmyyearshereI’veneverbeenontheroof.Shivering,Ipullmyjackettighter,wrappingmyarmsaroundmybodyasImovemyeyesbacktohim.

“Goodviewornot,whywouldanyonewant to risk falling seven stories?” Iaskhim,genuinelywonderingwhatwouldpossesssomeonewithdefectivelungstotakeatripontotheroofinthedeadofwinter.

Hisblueeyes lightupinawaythatmakesmystomachflip-flop. “YoueverseeParis fromaroof,Stella?OrRome?Orhere,even?It’s theonlythingthatmakesallthistreatmentcrapseemsmall.”

“ ‘Treatment crap’?” I ask, taking two steps towardhim.Six feet apart.Thelimit.“Thattreatmentcrapiswhatkeepsusalive.”

Hesnorts,rollinghiseyes.“Thattreatmentcrapiswhatstopsusfrombeingdownthereandactuallyliving.”

Mybloodbeginstoboil.“Doyouevenknowhowluckyyouaretobeinthisdrugtrial?Butyoujusttakeitforgranted.Aspoiled,privilegedbrat.”

“Wait,howdoyouknowaboutthetrial?Youbeenaskingaboutme?”

Iignorehisquestions,pushingon.“Ifyoudon’tcare,thenleave,”Ifireback.“Letsomeoneelsetakeyourspotinthetrial.Someonewhowantstolive.”

I look up at him, watching as the snow falls in the space between us,disappearingasitlandsinthedustingunderourfeet.Westareateachotherinsilence,andthenheshrugs,hisexpressionunreadable.Hetakesastepbackward,towardtheedgeagain.“You’reright.Imean,I’mdyinganyway.”

Inarrowmyeyesathim.Hewouldn’t.Right?

Anotherstepback.Andanother,hisfootstepscrunchinginthefreshlyfallensnow.His eyes are locked onmine, daringme to say something, to stop him.Challengingmetocallouttohim.

Closer.Almosttotheedge.

Iinhalesharply,thecoldscrapingattheinsideofmylungs.

Hedanglesonefootofftheend,andtheopenairmakesmythroattightenup.Hecan’t—“Will!No!Stop!” I shout, takinga stepcloser tohim,myheartpoundinginmyears.

Hestops,legfloatingofftheedge.Onemorestepandhewouldhavefallen.Onemorestepandhewouldhave...

Westareateachotherinsilence,hisblueeyescurious,interested.Andthenhe starts to laugh, loud and deep andwild, in a way so familiar, it feels likepressingonabruise.

“Ohmygod.Thelookonyourfacewaspriceless.”Hemimicsmyvoice,“Will!No!Stop!”

“Areyoufuckingkiddingme?Whywouldyoudothat?Fallingtoyourdeathisn’t a joke!” I can feelmywhole body shaking. I digmy fingernails intomypalm,tryingtostopthetremblingasIturnawayfromhim.

“Oh,comeon,Stella!”hecallsafterme.“Iwasonlyfoolingaround.”

Ipullopentherooftopdoorandstepoverthewallet,wantingtoputasmuchspace as possible between us.Why did I even bother?Why did I climb fourstoriestoseeifhewasokay?Istartrunningdownthefirstfewsteps,reachinguptorealize...Iforgottoputonmyfacemask.

Ineverforgetmyfacemask.

I slow down and then stop completely as an idea pops into my head.Climbingbackuptothedoor,Islowlypullthedollarbilloffthealarmswitch,pocketingitasIflybackdowntothethirdfloorofthehospital.

Leaningagainstthebrickwall,Icatchmybreathbeforepullingoffmyjacketandscarf,openingthedoor,andstrollingtomyroom,asifI’vejustbeenoffattheNICU.Somewhereinthedistance,theroofalarmgoesoffasWillopensthedoor to get back inside, distant but blaring as it echoes down the stairwell,reverberatinginthehallway.

Ican’thelpbutsmile.

Julie tosses a blue patient folder onto the desk behind the nurses’ station,shakingherheadandmurmuringtoherself,“Theroof,Will?Really?”

GoodtoknowI’mnottheonlyonehe’sdrivingcrazy.

***

I gaze out thewindow,watching the snow fall in the fluorescent glow of thecourtyard lights, the hallway finally dead silent after Will’s hour-longreprimanding.Glancingoverattheclock,Iseeit’sonlyeightp.m.,whichgivesmeplentyoftimetoworkonnumber14onmyto-dolist,“Prepareappforbetatesting,”andnumber15,“Completedosagetablefordiabetes,”beforeIgotobedtonight.

IcheckmyFacebookquicklybeforegettingstarted,arednotificationforaninvitetoaSeniorTripBeachBlastthisFridaynightinCabopoppingup.IclickonthepageandseethattheyusedthedescriptionI’ddraftedbackwhenIwasstill organizing this, and I’mnot sure if thatmakesme feel better orworse. Iscrollthroughthelistofpeoplegoing,seeingCamila’sandMya’spictures,andMason’s (now sansBrooke), followedbypictures of a half dozenotherpeoplefrommyschoolwhohavealreadyrepliedwithayes.

MyiPadbeginstoring,andIseeaFaceTimecallcominginfromCamila.It’sliketheyknewIwasthinkingaboutthem.Ismileandswiperighttoacceptthecall,almostgettingblindedwhenthebrightsunshineofwhateverpristinebeachthey’resittingonburststhroughthescreenofmyiPad.

“Okay,I’mofficiallyjealous!”IsayasCamila’ssunburntfacecomesintoview.

MyalungestostickherfaceoverCamila’sshoulder,hercurlyhairbouncingintotheframe.She’swearingthepolka-dotone-pieceIhelpedherpickout,but

she clearly doesn’t have time for pleasantries. “Are there any cute guys there?Anddon’tyoudaresay—”

“JustPoe,”wesayatthesametime.

Camilashrugs,fixingherglasses.“Poecounts.HeisCUTE!”

Mya snorts, nudging Camila. “Poe is a thousand percent not interested inyou,Camila.”

Camilapunchesherplayfully inthearm,andthenfreezes,squintingatme.“Ohmygod.Isthere?Stella,isthereacuteguythere?”

Irollmyeyes.“Heisnotcute.”

“ ‘He’!”The two of them squeal in delight, and I can sense thewaterfall ofquestionsthat’sabouttopouroverme.

“I gotta go!Talk to you tomorrow!” I saywhile theyprotest, andhangup.Themomentontheroof isstilla littletoofreshandweirdtotalkabout.ThepagefortheCabobeachpartyswingsbackintoview.Ihoverover“NotGoing”butIcan’tbringmyselftoclickonitjustyet,soinsteadIjustclosethepageandpullupVisualStudio.

IopentheprojectI’vebeenworkingonandbegintosortthroughthelinesand linesofcode,alreadyfeelingmymuscles loosenasIdo. I findanerror inline27,whereIputacinsteadofanxforavariable,andamissingequalsigninline182,butasidefromthat,theappfinallylooksreadytogoforbeta.Ialmostcan’tbelieveit.I’llcelebratewithapuddingcuplater.

I try to move on to completing the dosage table for diabetes in myspreadsheetof themostprevalent chronic conditions, sorting throughvaryingagesandweightsandmedications.But I soon findmyself staringat theblankcolumns,myfingertipstappingawayattheedgeofmylaptopinstead,mymindamillionmilesaway.

Focus.

Ireachovertograbmypocketnotebook,crossingoffnumber14andtryingtogetthefeelingofcalmthatusuallycomesfromfinishingto-dolistitems,butitdoesn’tcome.Ifreezeasmypencilhoversovernumber15, lookingfromtheblank columns and rows onmy spreadsheet back down to “Complete dosagetablefordiabetes.”

Unfinished.Ugh.

I chuck the notebook onto my bed, restlessness and unease filling mystomach. Standingup, Iwalkover to thewindow,myhandpushingback theblinds.

My eyes travel to the roof, to the spot whereWill was standing earlier. Iknow he was his usual self when I got up there, but I didn’t imagine thecoughing,andteetering.Orthefear.

Mr.“DeathComesforUsAll”didn’twanttodie.

Restless,Iwalkovertomymedcart,hopingthatmovingonto“Before-bedmeds” onmy to-do listwill help calmme down.My fingers tap away on themetalofthecartasIlookattheseaofbottles,andthenoutthewindowagainattheroof,andthenbackatthebottles.

Isheevendoinghistreatments?

Barbcanprobablyforcehimtotakemostofhismeds,butshecan’tbethereforeverysingledose.ShecanstraphimintohisAffloVest,butshecan’tensurehekeepsitonforthefullhalfhour.

He’sprobablynotdoingallhistreatments.

ItrytogooverthemedsinorderofwhenItakethem,shufflingthemaroundonthecart,thenamesallblurringtogether.Insteadoffeelingcalm,Ifeelmoreandmorefrustration,theangerclimbingupthesidesofmyhead.

Istrugglewiththecaponamucusthinner,pressingdownonitwithallmystrengthandtryingtotwistitoff.

Idon’twanthimtodie.

Thethoughtclimbsontopofthemountainoffrustrationandplantsaflag,clearandloudandsosurprisingtomethatIdon’tevenunderstandit.Ijustseehim walking back to the edge of that roof. And even though he’s the actualworst...

Idon’twanthimtodie.

Itwistthelidsharplyanditcomesflyingoff,pillsshoweringdownontomymedcart.Angrily,Islamthebottledown,thepillsjumpingagainwiththeforceofmyhand.“Dammit!”

CHAPTER6

WILL

Iopenthedoortomyroom,surprisedtoseeStellabackingupagainstthewall on the other side of the hallway. After the stunt I pulled yesterday, Ithoughtshe’dsteerclearofmeforatLEASTaweek.She’swearingaboutfourface masks and two pairs of gloves, her fingers wrapping tightly around theplastichandrailonthewall.Asshemoves,Icatchthescentoflavender.

Itsmellsnice.It’sprobablymynosecravinganythingthatisn’tbleach.

Igrin.“Areyoumyproctologist?”

She givesmewhat I think is an icy look fromwhat I can see of her face,leaning to peer pastme intomy room. I glance behindme to see what she’slookingat.Theartbooks, theAffloVesthangingon theedgeof thebed fromwhenI shrugged itoffas soonasBarb left,myopen sketchbookon the table.That’saboutit.

“I knew it,” she says finally, like she confirmed the answer to some greatSherlockHolmesmystery. She holds out her double-gloved hand. “Letme seeyourregimen.”

“You’rekidding,right?”

We stare each other down, her brown eyes shooting daggers through mewhileItrytogiveheranequallyintimidatingglare.ButI’mboredasshitsomycuriositygetsthebetterofme.Irollmyeyesandturntogoripapartmyroomlookingforasheetofpaperthat’sprobablyalreadyinalandfillsomewhere.

I push aside some magazines and check under the bed. I riffle through acoupleofmysketchbookpages,andevenlookundermypillowforshow,butit’snowheretobefound.

Istraightenupandshakemyheadather.“Can’tfindit.Sorry.Seeyalater.”

Shedoesn’tbudge,though,andcrossesherarmsindefiance,refusingtoleave.

SoIkeeplooking,myeyesscanningtheroomwhileStellatapsherfootinthehallwayimpatiently.It’suseless.Thatthingis—wait.

I notice my pocket-size sketchbook lying on my dresser, the regimencrammedintothebackofit,neatlyfoldedandjustbarelystickingoutpastthesmallpagesofthebook.

Mymommusthavehiddenittheresoitdidn’tendupinthegarbagebin.

Igrabit,headingbacktothedoorway,andholdoutthepapertoher.“Notthatit’sanyofyourbusiness...”

Shesnatchesthepaperfrommebeforepressingbackupagainstthefarwall.I see her furiously looking at the neat columns and rows that I made into apretty sick cartoon, imitating a level of Donkey Kong, while Mom and Dr.Hamidchatted.Theladderssitontopofmydosageinformation,rollingbarrelsbouncearoundmytreatmentnames,thedamselindistressscreams“HELP!”intheleft-handcornernexttomyname.Clever,right?

“Whatis—howcouldyou—why?”

Clearly,shedoesn’tthinkso.

“Isthiswhatananeurysmlookslike?ShouldIcallJulie?”

Sheshovesthepaperbackatme,herfacelikethunder.

“Hey,”Isay,holdingupmyhands.“Igetthatyouhavesomesave-the-worldherocomplexgoingon,butleavemeoutofit.”

She shakes her head atme. “Will. These treatments aren’t optional. Thesemedsaren’toptional.”

“Whichisprobablywhytheykeepshovingthemdownmythroat.”Tobefair,though,anythingcanbeoptionalifyou’recreativeenough.

Stella shakes her head, throwing up her hands and storming off down thehallway.“You’remakingmecrazy!”

Dr. Hamid’s words from earlier surprise me by playing through my head.Don’tgetcloseenoughtotouchthem.Fortheirsafety,andyours.Igrabafacemaskfrom an unopened box of them that Julie put bymydoor, pocket it, and jogafterher.

Iglancetothesidetoseeashort,brown-hairedboywithasharpnose,andevensharpercheekbones,peeringoutofroom310,hiseyebrowsraisedcuriouslyatmeasI followStelladownthehall totheelevator.Shereachestheelevatorfirst,steppinginsideandturningtofacemeasshehitsthefloorbutton.Imovetostepinafterherbutsheholdsupherhand.

“Sixfeet.”

Shit.

ThedoorsslideshutandItapmyfoot impatiently,pressingtheupbuttonover andover andover again as Iwatch the elevator climb steadily up to thefifth floor and then slowlybackdown tome. I glancenervously at the emptynurses’stationbehindmebeforeslidingquicklyintotheelevatorandjammingthedoor-closebutton.Imeetmyowngazeintheblurrymetaloftheelevator,rememberingthefacemaskinmypocketandslingingitonasIrideuptothefifthfloor.Thisisstupid.WhyamIevenfollowingBarbJr.?

With a ding, the door slowly opens, and I powerwalk down the hall andacrossthebridgetotheeastentranceoftheNICU,dodgingafewdoctorsalongtheway.They’reallclearlyontheirwaysomewhere,sonoonestopsme.Gentlypushingopen thedoor, IwatchStella foramoment. Iopenmymouth toaskwhat the hell that was all about, but then I see that her expression is dark.Serious. I stopa safedistanceaway fromherand followher eyes to thebaby,moretubesandwiresthanlimbs.

I see the tiny chest, struggling to rise and fall, struggling to continuebreathing.Ifeelmyownheartbeatinmychest,myownweaklungstryingtofillwithairfrommymaddashthroughthehospital.

“She’sfightingforherlife,”shefinallysays,meetingmyeyesintheglass.“Shedoesn’tknowwhat’saheadofherorwhyshe’sfighting.It’sjust...instinct,Will.Herinstinctistofight.Tolive.”

Instinct.

Ilostthatinstinctalongtimeago.Maybeatmyfiftiethhospital,inBerlin.MaybeabouteightmonthsagowhenIcontractedB.cepaciaandtheyrippedmynameoffthetransplantlist.Therearealotofpossibilities.

My jaw tightens. “Listen, you’ve got thewrong guy for that inspiring littlespeech—”

“Please.” She cuts me off, spinning around to face me with a surprisingamount of desperation in her expression. “I need you to follow your regimen.Strictlyandcompletely.”

“Idon’tthinkIheardthatright.Didyoujustsay...please?”Isay,tryingtododge the seriousness of this conversation. Her expression doesn’t change,though.Ishakemyhead,steppingclosertoherbutnottooclose.Something’sup.

“Okay.What’sreallygoingonhere?Iwon’tlaugh.”

She takes a deepbreath, taking two steps back tomyone step forward. “Ihave...controlissues.Ineedtoknowthatthingsareinorder.”

“So?Whatdoesthathavetodowithme?”

“I know you’re not doing your treatments.” She leans against the glass,lookingatme.“Andit’smessingmeup.Bad.”

I clearmy throat, lookingpasther at the small,helplessbabyon theothersideoftheglass.Ifeelatwingeofguilt,eventhoughthatmakesnosense.

“Yeah,well,I’dlovetohelpyouout.Butwhatyou’reasking. . .”Ishakemyhead,shrugging.“Eh,Idon’tknowhow.”

“Bullshit, Will,” she says, stomping her foot. “All CFers know how toadminister their own treatments.We’re practically doctors by the time we’retwelve.”

“Evenusspoiled,privilegedbrats?”Ichallenge,rippingthefacemaskoff.Sheisn’tamused