SEVENTEEN

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Even before I say the words, I know this isn't me. But it's all I can do now, and it's the best I have. "Lord Jesus, you're the master of life and death. Everything I have is yours. Just one touch restores the sick, heals the broken, and transforms the darkness. I ask that you be with Joel right now. May he feel your power and know your strength. Please help him. Amen."

"Are you honestly resorting to praying?" Monica appears in the relative's room.

"What else am I meant to do? Have a cup of tea like it doesn't matter?" I retort.

Her eyes are red raw, and her hair is falling out all over the place. She engulfs me in her arms, and I inhale the faint cooking smell mixed with cheap floral perfume: 'Why would I pay ridiculous prices, Joel, when I can smell nice for half the price?'

"How long has he been... fitting?" she asks.

"I don't know. He started fifty-five minutes ago, but no one's come in to tell me anything yet."

I pace the length of the room... thirty-three steps towards the sofa, and thirty-three steps back to the table.

Thirty-three more steps to the sofa.

Thirty-three back to the table.

Fifty-six minutes have gone by.

The skies outside are clear. Is that a good omen?

The bookshelf is full of books; no one has taken one recently. I'm sure we've got a bunch of old paperbacks at home I can donate...

"Will you stop pacing! Come on, Aspen. Come here!" She sighs and passes me a mug. "You might not want tea, but I certainly do." I know she doesn't actually want one. If she did, she'd do it herself. She's asking me to do it so I'm occupied and stop pacing.

I think myself through each step: put the kettle on, add the tea bag, wait for the kettle to boil...

Why hasn't Nicholas come to tell me anything? Why hasn't the doctor made an appearance?

Has he stopped fitting?

Is he alive?

Of course, he's alive... he has to be.

"Mrs Watkins," Nicholas says as he walks in. He realises someone else is here so adjusts his voice accordingly.

"I'm Joel's mother," Monica introduces herself.

"How is he?" I question.

His eyes meet mine, and I notice the graveness in his expression.

The kettle clicks as it finishes boiling. I hear the water bubbling away like a volcano erupting. When I look back at Nicholas from the kettle, I realise he's the volcano erupting with scorching words. Something awful is about to come out of his mouth, something life-changing, just like boiling water leaves burns in its wake.

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