Page 37 of Lies He Told Me (Bratva Crime Syndicate 1)

Nothing.

Maybe he’s just passed out already. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s fallen asleep randomly—and that’s before even shooting up. Some people, like Teddy, and even Wanda, based on the random places I’ve found her happily slumped over (outside a Porta Potty, in the middle of a busy supermarket, on some stairs), are nappers. Others, like me, have things that keep them up at night.

But as soon as I lift the tent flap, I see it. The confirmation I was dreading.

A scream rips out of my lips before I even have a chance to think.

“No!”

Then, “Help!”

Teddy is foaming at the mouth. The needle’s still clasped in his hand. Only his head is slumped to the side, his eyelids flickering in time to something I’ll never know.

“HELP!” I yell again, louder.

Yells. Foot slaps. People coming, swarming.

I hear the angry jangle of a busted zipper as the tent flap is ripped open.

“It’s Teddy!” someone shouts.

I notice, vaguely, that I’m holding him, hoisting him on his side so he won’t choke on his own vomit if it comes to that.

“Someone call for an ambulance!” Wanda barks.

Someone runs off. Chowder lets loose a howl.

The air is thick and clogged with unwashed bodies, with death.

No. No. This can’t be happening.

“Teddy?” I ask as his eyes slow down and stop pinwheeling in their sockets.

I shake him. The foam is still bubbling at his lips, tiny fuzz bubbles still popping.

The crowd is a stew of mutters.

“What are we—”

“Teddy—”

“I know CPR.” Wanda brushes me aside.

I stand with the others and watch, while Chowder trembles and winces into me.

It’s loud, the CPR, louder than I would’ve thought. Her pressing on his chest is all I can hear, all I can focus on.

One, two, three—thwuck, thwuck, thwuck. One, two, three.The sound seems all wrong coming from a human body. Everythingseems wrong.

The crowd waits.

We’ve already seen the end to this film a thousand times before. It’s unavoidable out here in Tent City. And yet, we’re like the kids hanging around to the bitter end of the credits, hoping beyond hope that there’s something more. That this is just some cruel trick of the director to bring us close to tears then back again. That there’s something—anything—else.

But by now, I’ve learned that, if there is a God, he doesn’t like me very much.

Teddy dies and stays dead. Wanda keeps on trying to bring him back. It’s almost worse, seeing her muscle-roped arms, her dirty black and pink tutu bobbing as she presses into his chest—one thwuck, two thwuck, three thwuck, four thwuck, five, six, seven, eight, nine.

I look away.

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