Page 57 of Knocked Up by my Best Friend's Brothers

“Paler than usual?” I try to laugh it off while remembering passed a staff bathroom on my way here. It’s close enough, in case of an emergency. Maybe I should see a doctor. Maybe it’s more than just stress.

One of the developers greets me with a broad smile. “Finally! Come on in! Josie is about to put the slides up.”

Cold sweat seeps through my skin, causing shivers to run down my spine. I don’t even register the fact that everyone is staring at me. Why are they staring at me?

“We’ve made great progress on the back end, but we need your input on the aesthetic. There were a few snags in the demo trials in our team,” Josie tells me.

“That’s alright. Whatever it is, we can iron out the kinks,” I manage.

The whole room starts spinning while I gather enough spatial awareness to make my way over to the chair nearest me.

“Christa,” another developer comes up to me. “You don’t look so hot.”

“Are you okay?” Josie asks.

Their voices sound more like echoes, farther and farther away, while my field of vision fades into a deep darkness. I’m losing consciousness, and I’m losing it fast. My breath is shallow. My limbs feel weak. I’m hot and cold at the same time.

“No, I don’t… I don’t think I’m okay.”

It’s all I get to say as I fall. Someone catches me before I hit the floor.

“Call an ambulance!”

I lingerin a bittersweet darkness for what feels like an eternity. Oddly enough, the fact that I’m aware of my current state comes with a peculiar sense of comfort and peace. My pragmatic side tells me I’m not dead. Death does not know self-awareness.

Machines beep.

Voices scuttle across my mind. They’re outside voices.

Paramedics. Then nurses. The on-call doctor who wants fluids pumped into me.

“Start an IV,” he says.

I feel the needle pricking my forearm; I want to complain about the discomfort, but I’m too weak. Fading in and out of an even deeper slumber, I lose track of what is real and what is purely a product of my own frazzled thought processes.

“Who’s her emergency contact again?”

“It says here on her file. The paramedics got it from her phone.”

“Her aunt should be here shortly,” another nurse chimes in. “I called her from the patient’s phone directly.”

“Good. Let’s run some blood tests. Go for the usual markers, first,” the doctor says. “Keep pumping her with fluids and vitamins. She’s showing some mild deficiency symptoms, judging by her skin and fingernails.”

The deep sleep catches me again.

By the time I come to and open my eyes to see the white ceiling lights of my hospital room, I feel better. Livelier, even. The nausea has subsided—finally, after two weeks of battling with my own burned-out stomach. My lips feel dry. I’m thirsty.

“Christa?” Aunt Mary’s voice draws me into the present.

I look around, registering the white walls, the pale gray blanket covering my lower body. The IV connecting my forearm to a saline and vitamin bag. The clip on my index finger that translates my vital functions onto a screen with a steady beep. And sitting next to my bed with a worried frown is my Aunt Mary.

“Hey,” I whisper.

“You’re okay,” she says, but her voice doesn’t exactly match her words.

“What happened?” I ask groggily while I try to discern what I remember from what I dreamed. “How long have I been out of it?”

Aunt Mary takes a deep breath and crosses her arms. “You’ve done did it this time, foolish girl,” she grumbles.

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