Page 87 of Irreversible

“Who the fuck cares what the world thinks? They’re irrelevant. Outliers,” he says. “Your worth isn’t determined by external validation. That’s bullshit.”

“You don’t have to?—”

He slaps the wall, hard. “You still matter.”

My breath catches. I squeeze the front of my nightdress as my eyes fall shut. “I just think…I feel like?—”

“No. Fuck whatever you’re about to say.” Two more slaps. “You. Matter.”

“Isaac…”

“Your name is Everly Cross, and you fucking matter. Believe it. Own it. And start fighting like you do.”

I want to cry.

His tone is hard, yet his words make me feel soft inside, gooey and warm. It could be the fever, but I think it’s him.

It takes all my strength just to lift my arm and press my hand to the wall. “I didn’t take you as someone…who gave pep talks.”

He grumbles. “Better theory is, I’m smart enough to know that my best chance of survival relies on the mopey girl next door.”

A drowsy smile lifts. “Weird way to say you like me.”

His tone softens, betraying his words. “I tolerate you.”

“Yeah…” My eyes drift closed again, the infection stealing me away. “I tolerate you, too, Isaac.”

Before I’m fully immersed in fever dreams, the door to my room unlocks. I barely manage to open my eyes all the way as I regard the hulking figure standing before me.Two figures?No…just one. My vision is distorted and I’m seeing double.

I swallow the sandpaper in my throat. “Roger?”

He grunts. “Breakfast.”

“I…I’m sick. Can you…” I reach for him, for something, but all I do is slide off the mattress. My head pounds, my body aches. As I inch myself back up, my hand slides underneath my pillow for support. For leverage.

And that’s when I feel it. I remember.

I have to do this.

Right now.

Roger trudges forward with a blurry platter, and the sound of it clinking against the tile mingles with the feel of yarn-spun wire sliding into my palm. I cup my hand around it as I lift up, collapsing onto the cot.

“Roger…please.” I squeeze the bracelet, my heart ping-ponging between my ribs. “I need medicine.”

Another caveman grunt. “You’ll live.”

“I won’t. It’s serious. Something went wrong…with my procedure.”

Hesitating, Roger stares down at me with beady eyes, his bald head morphing into two heads, then back into one. I can’t read him. His expression is stone, but he’s still here.

I raise my weakened arm, our precious escape plan hidden inside my fist. “Can you…help me sit up?” He can tell I’m not faking it. I’m truly sick—sweating, shivering, and wrecked. My skin feels hot and flushed, and I can only imagine how I look to him. “Please. I…need you.”

It hurts to say the words, but rotting in this cell hurts more.

Isaac is quiet.

He’s listening, waiting, silently begging for me to get this bracelet on Roger.

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