Page 38 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

N—

Non!

NON!

That halo of red froze in place over me, hazy, like looking through gas fumes as the pain slowly faded from my joints.

Ants crawling on my skin. Briefly. But everywhere.

Then nothing.

You had a seizure.

Temps?

Peter stared down at me as my eyes came into focus.

Combien de temps?

Wh-what?

Tuh-time?

Time? What do…how much time?

Yes.

Uh…thirty seconds. At the most? I mean…I think? It wasn’t long.

I shuddered, demanding my eyes to not leak.

It felt like forever.

Peter’s voice was shaky. Scared.

Over the course of my life, I’d heard that tone, that fear, in the voices of everyone who had ever meant anything to me. I hated hearing Peter’s voice sound that way. But even as the regret flooded through me, so did my memory of what had happened. Peter and I had been getting up from the den sofa to head upstairs for bed. As I went to stand, the seizure must have hit. I was on the hard wooden floor, staring up at Peter as he knelt next to my prone body.

I need to call an ambulance.

No. No.

Peter hesitated, his face screwed up with concern and doubt.

Help me sit. Please.

Together, Peter and I got my body working, sitting, reorienting myself with my surroundings. Making sure that I hadn’t bashed my arms or legs against anything. Peter explained that I had simply slid to the floor and jerked spasmodically for a few seconds, and then it was over. My arms and legs hadn’t flailed violently, nor had I hit my head violently.

It was a mild event.

If such a thing can ever be described in such a way.

I need to shower.

I refused to look down at the front of my pants. Refused to find out how obvious my predicament was to Peter.

I’ll help you.

I don’t need—