Part 3The Blizzard You Lied About

The rain was worse than I had anticipated, reducing the city streets to a gray, churning river of exhaust and mist.

Every rideshare app showed wait times of over forty minutes with astronomical surge pricing.

I stood under the building awning for five minutes before closing the app. I walked to the corner, scanned a municipal bike with my phone, and kicked the stand up.

The cheap plastic poncho was useless against the driving wind. Within two blocks, icy water had seeped past my collar, soaking through my wool sweater and gluing it to my skin until my teeth clicked together.

At a blind intersection, a food delivery scooter whipped out from an alleyway, running the light against the flow of traffic.

I slammed the handbrakes.

The wet tires skidded across a steel construction plate.

The bike flipped sideways, tossing me onto the asphalt. My right knee struck the concrete curb with a sickening, hollow crack.

A white bolt of agony shot straight up my spine, blinding me for several seconds.

The delivery driver stopped, his face draining of color through his rain-streaked visor. "Mister! Jesus, are you all right? Do you need an ambulance?"

I looked down at my soaked trousers. The denim over my knee was torn wide open, the fabric rapidly darkening with blood that washed away in pink ribbons under the rain.

I looked at the kid's terrified face, swallowed the bile rising in my throat, and waved him away.

"I'm fine," I croaked. "Just go."

I dragged myself up using the metal pedestrian railing, every nerve in my leg screaming.

Limping heavily, I pushed the bent bicycle the remaining half-mile to the international courier depot.

Thirty minutes later, the package was processed, labeled, and placed in the express international bin. With the premium fee Giselle’s corporate account covered, it would clear customs and land at their resort hours before the doors opened.

By the time I dragged my waterlogged body back to the loft, my knee had stiffened into a throbbing mass of fire.

I had barely peeled off the blood-caked jeans when my phone buzzed on the counter.

Giselle.

"Shane, did you drop it off?"

"It's done."

"Thank God! You're a lifesaver. But..." She hesitated, her tone souring into mild reprimand. "The desk clerk just emailed me a confirmation photo of the parcel. The corner of the envelope looks crushed and damp. Did you drop it?"

I looked down at the gaping, raw flesh on my kneecap, pressing a dry dish towel against it until dark red soaked through the cotton. My voice was raspy. "The storm was bad. I took a fall."

A beat of dead air.

Then came her familiar, weary sigh. "Babe, I know the weather is awful, but that package was critical. If the contents inside got bent, I have to spend twenty minutes apologizing to high-level executives. Couldn't you have held onto it a little tighter?"

"Right. My fault again."

"Got it," I whispered.

"Change out of your wet clothes so you don't get sick," she said briskly. "Make sure our relatives aren't making a scene about the postponement. I have to step into a briefing. Love you."

She hung up.

I tossed the bloodied towel into the wastebasket.

It landed directly on top of our custom leather-bound wedding registry, right across our vows.

By late afternoon, the fever hit.

The mercury in the glass thermometer climbed steadily until it hit 103.1°F.

I didn't call Giselle. I didn't call my family. I pulled on an old fleece jacket, wrapped a makeshift bandage around my knee, and dragged myself downstairs to flag a yellow cab to the county hospital's emergency room.

The ER waiting room was an assault on the senses—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, smelling of stale rain, antiseptic, and bleach.

I found a cracked plastic chair in the corner and curled into myself, shivering violently as cold sweat drenched my hairline.

My pocket vibrated. Giselle’s name again.

"Why haven't you answered my texts?" she demanded, annoyance barely concealed behind her hurried tone.

"I'm not doing well," I managed, my throat raw. "I'm at the hospital."

"The hospital? What for?"

"A high fever."

"How are you so careless?" she chided automatically. "You never listen to your body. I leave for twenty-four hours and you can't even remember to put on a warm coat? Look, have the doctor write you an antibiotic, but listen to me—something terrible happened on the back end."

She lowered her voice, assuming a grave, crisis-management tone.

"Shane, the audit failed to verify their liquidity. To cover the shortfall before the closing bell and keep the firm from being slapped with a federal injunction... I had to transfer the thirty thousand out of your personal savings."

The background murmur of the hospital vanished, replaced by a deafening, hollow ring.

Thirty thousand dollars.

Every penny I had earned over five years of grueling post-doctoral grant research. The down payment for our home. The only safety net I had in the world.

"You took everything?"

"It was an emergency! I didn't have time to ask for permission. You're my partner, Shane—in life and in this future we're building. You have to understand the stakes."

She rushed on, her voice sweetening into a manipulative coo. "Be a good boy. When I get back, I'll return it with ten percent interest. Did they just call your name? Go get your prescription. We'll sort the money when I land."

The line went dead.

At that exact moment, the harsh squawk of the triage intercom cut through the room:

"Shane Conrad! Responsible party for Shane Conrad to the billing desk!"

Gripping the plastic armrests, I dragged my shaking body to the counter, leaning my forearms against the plexiglass window for support.

"We need a two-thousand-dollar admission deposit to move you to an observation bed and start an IV line," the clerk said, sliding a clipboard toward me without looking up.

I opened my banking app.

Account balance: "$34.20."

Behind me, an impatient man in line grunted loudly. "Hey, pal, you paying or what? Some of us are actually sick here!"

I looked down at the screen.

A notification had popped up from Instagram.

Ashton had just updated his story.

"The Canadian cold is fierce, but the vintage vinyl and VIP seats she tracked down are keeping me warmer than summer."

The photo showed him lounging before a roaring stone hearth, holding the pristine concert tickets up toward the flames.

I slowly slid the admission form back through the slot.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I can't pay. Cancel it."

I turned around to leave, but the room tilted violently on its axis.

The gray linoleum rose up to meet my face, and darkness swallowed me whole.