Page 19 of A Mountain Man Walks into a Library

I glance up at him and notice a slight trickle of blood running slowly down his shin. One of the shards must have shot up and nicked him. But when I see his face, all the color has drained out of it.

“Remy?” I ask as his parents crowd up around us.

And then his eyelids flutter close and Remy collapses onto the ground.

I only manage to catch him enough to stop him from banging his head against the bottom porch step. He’s limp and heavy in my arms. His mouth hangs open just slightly, and when I feel for a pulse in his neck, I am relieved to detect it immediately.

Marjorie settles to her knees in the grass beside me. She’s got her purse, and she retrieves something from it. She holds it out so I can see it.

It’s a syringe.

“This is a glucagon injection, Sam,” she says, calmly and assertively, “I am going to show you how to administer it. This will help raise Remy’s blood glucose levels.” She works with the syringe as she speaks, quick, efficient, and focused. She inserts the needle into a glass vial and tips it upside down. Then she actuates the plunger and draws the clear liquid into the body of the syringe.

“The medication prompts the liver to release stored sugar to the blood. He should wake up within fifteen minutes, and then we’re going to give him a little snack because he apparently hasn’t eaten enough today.”

Immediately, I think of our morning round of shower sex and how he seemed to lose his balance in the shower. I’d noticed his medicine cabinet full of diabetic supplies and figured a bagel couldn’t hurt. But then we spent the afternoon canoeing and hiking and making out, and I don’t remember if he’s eaten anything since that stupid bagel.

“All right, Sam,” Marjorie says, “you aren’t going to pass out too when you see the injection, are you? It’s okay if you don’t want to see this.”

I hold her gaze and swallow. “No. I want to see.”

She nods at me, and then she pushes up the sleeve of Remy’s T-shirt. “This kind is an intramuscular medication,” she says, “see? Here.” She tears open an alcohol swab and swipes it over a spot on his upper arm. “I’m going to inject it directly into muscle. Are you ready, Sam?”

“Ready,” I say, still holding Remy in my arms.

“Okay,” Marjorie says, “here we go.”

Her thumb pushes down on the plunger and the glucagon empties into Remy’s arm.

It’s only as she’s tidying up that I remember Remy said she was a nurse. That explains her calmness, her precision. That, and her love for her son, probably. I settle beside him in the grass, an arm around his shoulders, my other hand brushing his hair off of his sweaty forehead.

Marjorie watches us for a moment. Then she sighs and stands up, brushing her hands on the front of her jeans.

“I’m going to get him some juice and crackers,” she says, “juice for a fast-acting sugar source, Sam, and the crackers for a slower-acting source. Got it?”

“Got it.”

She nods grimly at me, the seriousness a sudden change from her usual cheerful demeanor. I’m thankful for it. And I’m even more thankful as Remy begins to stir against me.

He’s not fully awake yet when his mom returns. She drops down across from us, mindful of the broken glass, and sets down the juice and crackers.

“If you’re on your own when this happens, you’ll want to call an ambulance,” she says, “but I’m a nurse, so I think we’re going to be okay. He just needs some food.”

When Remy comes to, I’m still holding him. He looks wrecked and like the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

“Hey, handsome,” I say when he finally blinks up at me. “How are you feeling?”

Remy wrinkles his nose. “Disgusting.”

Marjorie grins at him. “Too bad, baby,” she says, and shoves a cup into his hands. “Juice and crackers. You know the drill.”

I continue to hold him as he sips his juice and nibbles his crackers. When he’s finally ready to stand, Marjorie helps him into the cabin so they can test his blood sugar. I stay behind in the yard. I think they might need their space together, and someone needs to clean up all this glass. Grabbing a small trash can, I get to work.

When I’m finished, I head inside. As I walk past the kitchen, I hear Marjorie speaking to her son in a low voice.

“Are you sure you don’t want to come back with us?” she asks.

“Mom,” Remy answers, a slight whine to his voice, “I told you, I’m fine.”

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