One Last Miracle [complete]

XXVII

XXVIII

fourteen days...

"The movie is about to start."

Half asleep, I barely pay attention to Rick's whine. Apparently a new Marvel movie Is cause for apocalyptic grade pandemonium.

"There's still minutes."

"Dad..."

"The news is nearly over."

Conversation stops after that as Rick concedes defeat. Up since midnight from a fever that's only just beginning to pass, I've been unsuccessfully fighting exhaustion, so I despise the silence. I'm just thankful for the newsreader as he drones on:

A head on collision last night on Walker Street has ended in tragedy. It is believed the driver of a stolen car was under the influence when he collided with someone else late last night. One victim sustained serious injuries and is recovering in hospital, while the other two—the victim and perpetrator—have fatally passed away on scene. This accident adds to the already alarmingly high road toll.

Superheroes would've been better to fall asleep to.

*

By lunch the fever has passed, although lethargy remains. Sitting at the table, Rick chewing obnoxiously next to me, I try to focus on the conversation with dad.

"...shopping later, so you'll be here alone. Rick, that means you have to behave—"

"Dad," grouches Rick, shame faced.

"I'm serious."

There's nothing dad hates more than leaving me home alone: the prospect of something happening, with no way of getting to the hospital terrifies him. Except life goes on and people still have to do the mundane things of life.

"Keep an eye on your sister, too. Call me if anything happens."

I cringe. Rick shouldn't have to shoulder that responsibility. "I'll be fine."

Dad doesn't look at me. His hands are clenched.

I don't dare let my mind wonder to where his is at.

"I'll be fine," I repeat. "I'll lay on the couch and I won't get up. Rick can bring me all my food."

Rick scoffs. "I'll only make toast."

"If there's cheese, I'm happy."

"You—"

"I think my phones ringing." Dad's chair scrapes along the floor. "I'll be back."

First chance of escape, he takes. A few minutes later, which is spent in silence, he comes back, frowning.

"Who was it?"

A shake of the head. "No idea." He extends his hand. "And it was your phone ringing, not mine."

"Unknown number?" There's only a dozen contacts in my phone, all saved. "Did they leave a voicemail?"

"Four times in the space of ten minutes they rang. Not one."

"I'll call them back. They probably just have the wrong number."

"Are you sure?"

"It seems urgent." Leaving my food half eaten on the table, I slide my chair back. "I should only be quick."

Dialling the number, my nerves are frayed, but I push the irrational reaction back. As it rings, I do laps of the couch, counting how many steps it takes me. No one picks up. I consider letting it go, because it's very clear it's a prank if they're too scared to pick up on the reverse—but something nags me. So, I redial.

And this time the phone picks up. The only sound on the other end is a sob.

"Hello?" I caution. "Are you alright? I'm sorry, but I think you've got the wrong—"

"Alyson. A-Alyson?"

The voice is familiar, but I can't place it. "Who is this?"

"Oh god..." A choked off breath. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

Over and over, just the words I'm sorry. "Who is this?"

"They... I'm sorry."

Heart hammering in my chest, I head back into the living. There's something wrong, and I don't know how to fix it—but Dad will. "Dad," I call quietly. He looks over, brows furrowed. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I say, "They know who I am. But I don't think they're okay. Can you..."

He takes over wordlessly. I watch avidly as his voice drops, whispering words of comfort to whoever is on the end of the line. Calm and collected. I'm sure he's done this thousands of times at work, second nature to him by now.

For the longest time, this goes on. Then his expression stutters.

"Dad?" He won't look at me. "Dad? What happened?"

He does. The look in his eyes is haunted. "I'm sorry," he whispers.

The same words.

A sinking feeling forms in the pit in my stomach.

"Dad? What—"

He only holds the phone out to me.

Wordlessly, I take it, unable to say anything, simply waiting.

"Alyson... I'm sorry. God, I'm sorry."

Again, with those same words.

"What happened." My voice is strained; frustrated.

"They weren't home... the car... a drunk... I'm sorry... my son's..."

The pieces that to fall together and suddenly I'm able to recognise the voice.

"I lost him.... I lost them..."

At some point, the phone smashes to the floor. I'm not even aware that I've dropped it. Claustrophobia is too busy forming around me, sucking all the air out. My body gives out too at some point, like my spine suddenly disintegrates.

The world crashes around me and I can hear is the static echo of two words.

James.

Dying.