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Adam is used to his life being continually upheaved. First, by a simple question about Welsh kings. Next, by the dynamic duo of Robert Parrish and Ronan Lynch. And now, he guesses, by his own fucking body. The finish line is always moving—it’s not enough that he’s got rent and food and Aglionby to pay for, why not add two types of insulin onto it?
Medical shit is expensive.
He can rework—the hierarchy is now Aglionby, rent, insulin, food, then everything else. There isn’t a lot, but it can almost be enough. He’s assigned an endocrinologist, who’s a massive pain in the ass, enrolled in Medicaid, and though this doctor has opinions and strong recommendations they’re just recommendations. Insulin can be stretched.
It’s just everyone else is being so fucking annoying about it. Aglionby, Gansey, Blue, even fucking Ronan Lynch is on his ass about it all; if Gansey hands him one more printed-out mayoclinic.com article about Type I Diabetes management he’s actually going to shove it down his throat.
That’s the worst part. He’s supposed to eat lunch in the nurse’s office, something about dosing and liability. He does it exactly once before another diabetic tattles and suddenly his business is all over the school. So he doesn’t go back. Adam doesn’t eat lunch, anyway, so why waste the insulin and suffer the embarrassment?
Gansey doesn’t like it at all. He and Ronan have tried at least four times in the last month to buy him insulin or pay his rent or buy snacks. He’s got this. Adam’s got the risks weighed out; being high isn’t going to kill him quick, but being low will. Less insulin, even less food, and it’ll be fine. It’s not ideal, but it can get him through until things can be adjusted again.
It’s just a matter of adjustment, of balancing the risks and the checkbook and the work. Just one more thing to juggle, to ignore.
:: ::
“Earth to Parrish.” Ronan’s fingers are snapping in front of his face. “You look like shit.”
“Fuck off, Lynch. Early shift.” Adam forgets that he’s already in Latin. He’s been feeling shittier; St. Agnes hiked up the rent, and it’s thrown everything off kilter again. It knocks everything below school and rent to budget of approximately seventeen dollars per two weeks. That’s not enough for insulin. It’s enough for food, kind of. The financial calculus is getting harder, though.
He’s just fucking tired.
“You ready for the quiz? Gonna beat you again,” Ronan says. Adam is not ready for the quiz.
“In your dreams,” Adam responds. He hasn’t been sleeping great—he knows he keeps dipping Low during the night, so he’s been knocking back a hand of dollar store candy and waking up to repeat before he has to drag himself to work.
He’s missed the last two endocrinologist appointments.
“Did you just take a mini-nap? Dude, you’re like on fucking Mars today.” Okay, so Lynch is feeling like being a dick.
“Fuck off,” Adam mumbles. He’s got to focus on Latin. What the fuck were they learning again? It doesn’t matter. He can conjugate and translate in his sleep. He can be better than Ronan Fucking Lynch.
Why is he so tired?
“That was easy,” Adam says, as Gansey flanks him out of the classroom.
“Really? You looked a little spaced before it,” Gansey says in his Gansey voice.
“Yeah. Why?” Adam asks.
“Rest of the class was struggling, space cadet,” Ronan says, flicks Adam’s ear. “I still have you beat though. You fucked up the tense on the last one.” And then he looks at Adam a little closer, and something darker flashes across his face.
“Stop that,” Adam says, and before Gansey can say or do anything Ronan drags Adam into an empty classroom. He looks pissed off.
“Have you gone off the fucking rails?” Ronan asks, teeth bared and muscles in his jaw popping. “Or are you just that stupid?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Calm deflection. That’s what works with all the adults, so that must work with Ronan, too, right?
No. This is Ronan Fucking Lynch.
“Stop that. What the actual fucking kind of death wish do you have?” He’s pacing, and Adam honestly can’t pull Ronan into focus without nausea spirling up and up and out of control.
“You’re one to talk.” Adam’s voice is void of any emotion.
“Fuck you, Parrish.” Ronan’s voice has gone cold. “You look like you’re fucking dying. At least I had the guts to do it quick.”
And then he’s gone.
:: ::
It’s fine. Adam knows what he’s doing, and it’s easier when he doesn’t have to worry about Gansey or Ronan or whoever tattling and ruining everything. He’s tired and honestly everything is so precarious that it’s easy not to have something else to balance.
Everything else is getting harder. Any appetite is gone. He’s having to force sugar into his body, but then he saves money on insulin when he eats less and it’s probably fine anyway.
It isn’t until he hits two days without insulin that he realizes that while high will kill you slower than low, it can still kill you.
:: ::
“Parrish.”
Adam doesn’t know how long he’s been in this bathroom. He doesn’t know how he can keep finding more to throw up, why his stomach is refusing to hold any water but he’s still so fucking thirsty. He could drink a whole gallon of water right now, has tried it, but it just comes right back up.
What period is it? Is school even still going? Is he missing a shift?
“Parrish, holy fuck.” Adam knows that voice. It’s Ronan.
“Is Latin over?” he asks, as Ronan’s hands find his forehead, find his shoulders. “We had a quiz?”
“No. How long have you been here?” There’s anger in his voice. Oh, he’s still mad at Adam.
“Doesn’t matter. Gonna go back to class,” Adam gets out, but then he’s throwing up water into the toilet bowl again.
“Uh, full offense, but no. Where the fuck is your shit?” Lynch’s voice cuts through something, whatever has made Adam feel so distanced from everyone and everything. But it takes too long to parse the sounds into words. “Nevermind, I’m just going to dig.”
“No, I’m fine,” Adam argues. Lynch doesn’t respond; his face is all sharp angles, and it’s hard to keep track of where he is. “Ow. Fucking shit, Lynch, didn’t need to stab me. It’s gonna bruise now.”
Ronan continues to ignore him, just squeezes Adam’s finger so there’s enough blood for the test strip. He’s looking at Adam the weird way he’s been doing for days, like he can’t decide if he wants to kill Adam or try to buy his insulin again.
“It’s probably fine,” Adam slurs, leaning against the stall door. “High is safer than low.”
“It just says high. There’s no number.” Ronan Lynch’s voice trembles, and Adam briefly wonders how something as mundane as blood has shaken someone who’s an earthquake themself. “Okay. We’re going on a field trip.”
“To class?” Adam asks, and then Ronan’s hauling him to his feet and swinging Adam’s backpack over his own shoulder. His grip on Adam’s waist is tight, comforting.
“Sure, man,” Ronan says. He just marches Adam out of the school. Things are a little bit blurry, and before Adam knows it he’s in the passenger seat of the BMW.
“Where we goin’?” Adam doesn’t hear how thick his voice sounds, dripping with southern sugar. Hah. Sugar.
“Somewhere. Dude, when was the last time you took insulin?” Oh no. He’s still mad.
“You’re still mad at me,” Adam gets out. He hears his own voice crack.
“I’m not. We have bigger fish to fry, Parrish. Last time you had insulin, go.” Ronan’s driving fast but his eyes are on Adam.
“Dunno. Lemme see if I got bruises anywhere,” Adam says, lifts up his shirt. There’s one bruise, pale and yellowing. “Probably two days ago.”
It takes every single bit of Ronan’s self control to not respond to that. Gansey had sat him down the week after Adam had told them, had forced him to read articles on worst-case scenarios.
This seems a little too close to that.
“Oh, fuck no.” At least Adam can recognize what a hospital looks like, so he’s not dead yet. “I’m not doing this, Lynch.”
“Yes, you are,” Ronan’s voice is harsh, bitter, dead. He doesn’t think they have time for a fight, so his hand wraps around Adam’s arm and he doesn’t let go. It is too easy to wrap around Adam’s bicep.
“Let go of me, I’m fine.” All of Adam’s protests after that don’t register; Ronan knows if he listens he’s not going to be able to do this so he walks them up to the desk. He’s half-holding Adam up, even as Adam struggles weakly to escape Ronan’s grasp.
“He’s a type one diabetic and his meter just says high and nothing else,” is all Ronan says.
“Uh, okay. Head straight back to triage,” the lady at the desk says, after exactly half a second to process. Well, that’s not great. If Parrish had to wait to be seen while literally concussed and puking and they’re heading straight back now, something is blatantly wrong.
A lot is blatantly wrong, but Ronan doesn’t know why or what or how to fix it.
Someone gets him weighed, and then Adam’s deposited on a bed. He’s just babbling, telling Ronan and the nurse that he’s fine and please let him go he really can’t afford this so Ronan just stops listening. He can’t listen to Parrish when he’s like this.
But he’s not willing to let Adam die in an Aglionby bathroom, either.
:: ::
“Let me prick myself,” Adam argues. He’s panting, not even just a little bit. “It was probably just a meter error.” His hands are absolutely shaking, and the nurse has just finished finally inserting an IV. The nurse says it’s just for fluids right now, because he’s apparently massively dehydrated despite chugging water like it’s nothing. The look on her face says it’s likely going to be for something else, or at least dual-purposed.
“The doctor saw the first blood sugar and wants some labs and a pH test,” the nurse says, after grabbing Adam’s hand to prick a finger.
“Stop or all my fingers are gonna be bruised,” Adam says, but the go-to strategy of everyone seems to be ignoring him. “M thirsty.”
“We can try some water, but your friend said you were vomiting. We’re running tests for electrolytes, and if there’s an imbalance vomiting can really mess them up further,” she says. But she gives Adam the cup, and Adam immediately gulps it down. Or, he would, but Ronan’s hand is on his wrist tight and stopping him from drinking it.
“Slow it down, Parrish,” Ronan says. “Don’t puke it up.”
“Fuck you,” Adam replies, but Ronan doesn’t let go and so Adam just has to drink it slow. “Let go.”
Five minutes later, Adam is puking the water back into a basin the nurse is holding.
“Okay,” the nurse says, “Let’s back off the water, then.” She gently pushes Adam back against the mattress, even though he sits up immediately. “You really need to lay down, Adam.”
“I’m thirsty,” Adam gets out.
“You’re getting fluids through the IV,” the nurse responds. “The labs aren’t in yet, but the doctors are going to be down any minute.”
“I’m fine, I’m just thirsty,” he says again.
“Lay the fuck down,” Ronan responds. “Dude, you look so shitty. Just stay down.”
“No,” Adam says. “Can I go? I can’t miss another work shift this week.”
“No,” the nurse says immediately. “You haven’t even talked to the ER doctor yet. Your endocrinologist is also on her week for inpatient, so she will be coming down as well.”
That’s when all hell breaks loose.
Adam is upright in an instant, trying to get up, trying to leave. The nurse is quicker than he is, though, which isn’t surprising. She’s all but holding his shoulders against the bed, trying to speak calmly but firmly. Adam isn’t listening.
“Parrish, stop.” Ronan says. “You’re going to fucking hurt yourself or they’ll knock you out so you don’t. Stop fighting.” Something about it gets through, but Adam is panting and he sits up as soon as the nurse lets go of him.
He’s throwing up again.
When it’s over, the nurse lays him down before Adam can register what she’s doing. That’s when the doctors approach. Adam sits back up.
“Hello, Adam,” the endocrinologist says, and it’s like Adam remembers that not only has he been skipping appointments, but that he doesn’t want to face that music right now.
“Fuck,” is all he says. He’s still sitting up, but he’s pale and shaking and looks like he could keel over any moment. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m on inpatient rotation this week, and the ER doctor noticed you were my patient,” she says, as Adam deliberately stares at the ground. “Can you please lay down before we talk?”
“I’m fine here. I need to go, actually,” Adam says. He moves to get off the bed again.
“We can’t let you leave,” the endocrinologist says. “We’re waiting on lab results to determine which floor will take you, but you’re being admitted.”
“No. I can’t afford it.” Adam’s legs are over the side of the bed now. “I need to leave.”
“Adam, I will not discharge you,” she says, her voice soft but strong. “If you leave, you will die. It’s not an if, it’s a when.”
Adam is off the bed. His knees immediately crumple, and he’s falling until the nurse and the doctor catch him. There’s a lot of noise, and then he’s somehow laying down again and the bed rails are pulled up around him. The world is spinning too much to sit up again.
“Someone from social services is on the way,” the ER doctor says. “He’s not coherent enough to make medical decisions.”
“I’m an adult, legally,” Adam slurs out. “Don’t call them.”
The endocrinologist and ER doctor share a look. Ronan knows that something is in motion then, something that if Adam registered it would be a shitshow. So it’s a matter of distraction, because Parrish cannot afford to lose his shit right now. He looks like he’s dying; his skin is pale and he’s sweating and panting and he is so thin that it looks like he could just… stop. At any moment, with no warning.
“The labs are starting to come in,” the ER doctor says. “Your blood sugar is pushing 600, and you have a significant number of ketones and a lowered body pH. Your electrolyte balance is completely off and your blood pressure is low. We have to call the floors, but we’re fairly certain the medical ICU is going to take you. No one else will with an insulin drip.”
“It’s not that bad. I’m fine, I really can’t afford it,” Adam argues, struggling to sit up. “Just discharge me.”
“Adam, you are going to die if you don’t let us help you,” the endocrinologist says.
“You’re not leaving,” Ronan Lynch says, and Adam’s head turns towards him. “Parrish, the rest of the shit is taken care of. You’re not dying for your fucking pride.”
Adam holds his gaze for one long second.
“Fuck you,” Adam says, but he stops trying to force his body to sit up.
“Start Potassium and an insulin drip. Blood pressure every fifteen minutes, and we’ll get ICU on the phone to see if they’ll take him,” the endocrinologist says.
It looks like Adam’s shutting down. He’s just staring at the ceiling, eyes unfocused and unwilling to look at anyone.
Things start moving more quickly, then. The nurse is hooking up different bags and pumps and connecting them to the central line, and there’s a blood pressure cuff attached around Adam’s arm. He’s still in his uniform, but the shirt is unbuttoned for heart monitoring, and Ronan’s fairly certain pretty soon he’ll have to change. He’s heard the word catheter, and honestly he’s not going to let Adam know that it’s coming.
It’s probably better if Adam isn’t aware that they’re going to put a tube up his dick, and all that.
“M’ thirsty,” Adam gets out, right as there’s a lot of people entering the room. “M’ arm’s burnin’.”
“That’s just the Potassium. Hopefully after this bag we can slow down the infusion rate,” a nurse says. Adam thinks it’s the ER nurse, but his hands go to the place where the needle is taped under his skin. There’s a lot of talking, and the nurses keep at least one eye on him, but he’s not coordinated enough to peel the patch up, so they focus at the task at hand.
Adam’s blood sugar, at the last prick, was over 550. They’re rattling off information and Adam’s endocrinologist is explaining the course of treatment.
“Stop talkin’ about me like I’m not here,” Adam slurs out. “I can hear you.”
Ronan just holds his hand, stops him from picking at the tape and tries to distract him until it’s time for him to be moved. The ICU nurse turns to Adam. He’s sweating and his face is creased.
“It’s still burning,” he says. “My arm. S’cold but feels like fire.” Adam’s looking at Ronan, eyes as close to asking for help as he can get.
“It’s just the Potassium,” the nurse says. “We’re going to go for a bit of a ride now, okay?”
“Where?” Adam asks. “I’m thirsty.”
“We’re getting you set up in the ICU,” she says. “My name is Koumani, and I’m going to be your day nurse the next few days.”
“Adam,” he says. “I can get up. Don’t need to move the bed.”
“It’s easier, and there’s a lot of stuff attached to you,” she says, and then just starts moving the bed. Adam looks startled for one second. But he can’t really track anything, other than that Ronan is gone. There are so many people that he doesn’t know and he can’t find the one person he does and why is no one listening to him? Ronan, at least, listens.
“Ronan,” Adam says, is trying to sit up to see if he can find him. But that immediately makes his head spin, and before a nurse can even intervene he’s back against the mattress. “Can’t find him.”
“We’re just going to get you set up first, and then he can come back,” the nurse says, as Adam is rolled into a room and the bed stops moving. “We need to get you into a gown, okay?”
Adam blinks, and somehow Calla from Fox Way is in the room.
“S’too bright,” Adam gets out, tries to cover his eyes with a hand and finds that his entire body feels like absolute trash.
“The lights are already down. Let me close the blinds,” Calla says, and she does just that. She doesn’t bother mentioning that it is dark outside already.
“Thirsty.” He’s still trying to figure out where and when it is, but his mouth is so dry and he is so fucking thirsty.
“Sorry, Adam. They’re giving you enough fluid through the IV and they said you were throwing up in the ER.” Her voice is calm and low and gentle, not at all what Adam expects.
“I’m fine,” Adam promises. “Just some water. I’m really thirsty.”
“Sorry.” Calla’s sitting close to him now. “How about an ice chip or two?”
Adam nods, and he reaches for the cup but Calla doesn’t hand it over. Instead, she spoons out a few and puts them in Adam’s mouth; his eyelids flutter at the sensation.
“More, please,” he says. “I am so thirsty.”
“Let’s see how that sits,” Calla says instead, and it’s then that a nurse enters the room.
Adam barely remembers to turn to the side before he’s puking. It hurts coming up, it hurts that things are tugging and pulling all over his chest and arms, and it hurts enough that he can’t even reach for a bowl. The nurse is there with one, is turning Adam back onto his back and then reaches to fix the wires. She grabs Adam’s hand, and Adam flinches back. He looks at the hand, and he sees the bruised and mottled fingers.
“What the fuck?” Adam asks, tries to pull his hand away from her grip. The nurse holds on firmly, and she picks a non-bruised finger and pricks it mercilessly. He knows it will bruise.
“What’s the number?” Calla asks, as the nurse goes to pull blood from Adam’s IV line.
“530. It’s starting to come down slowly,” the nurse says.
“Can I go?” Adam asks. “I’m late for work, and I really can’t afford to miss a shift.”
“No,” the nurse says. “Stay laying down, okay? Your blood pressure has been low and it’ll feel better laying down.”
That just makes Adam try to sit up.
“What ‘m I s’posed to do if I gotta pee?” Adam asks, even as his muscles relax back into the mattress against his own will.
“Uh, that’s taken care of,” the nurse says. “Just try to rest.”
“Can I have some more of the ice chips?” Adam asks, eyes searching for them. He knows they’re here somewhere.
“No. Your electrolyte balance is way off and throwing up further aggravates it, and you’re getting enough fluid through the IV. I’ll talk to the doctor to get an official order, but right now we’re going nothing by mouth.”
“I’m thirsty,” Adam says, doesn’t know why they’re not understanding this. “I’ll keep it down this time.”
“Sorry, Adam. It’s not happening,” she says. “How are you feeling?”
“Shitty,” he says. “What time is it?”
“About one in the morning,” Calla offers. “Are you feeling uncomfortable?”
“Why are you here?” Adam’s hands are shaking, but one goes to the IV tape.
“I didn’t want you to be alone,” Calla responds easily. There is no way Adam is tracking well enough to have the conversation they’re going to need to—Adam’s been placed under emergency guardianship, and it’s going to turn permanent very soon.
“Where’s Ronan?” Adam asks, as he continues to try to get clumsy fingers to pick at the patch. It’s not working.
“Is there something uncomfortable with your IV, Adam?” Calla’s voice is low and patient.
“Itchy. And it’s still burning,” Adam’s fingers have found an edge, but he can’t gather up the grip or the strength.
“Leave it alone, please,” Calla says. “You’re almost done with the Potassium drip, I think.”
“Want it out. Gonna leave soon,” Adam says, and that’s when the nurse just places his hand back against the mattress.
“You’re nowhere near discharge, Adam,” the nurse explains. “Hopefully in a day or two we can step you down from the ICU, but you need to be off the insulin drip first.”
“Don’t need the drip,” Adam shoots back. He’s starting to shift around, just a little bit.
“You do. Your blood sugar is still above 500, and it’s coming down slower than we want,” the nurse explains. “Is something uncomfortable, Adam?”
“Don’t feel good,” Adam says. He starts trying to sit up, and when he manages it it is definitely not worth it. His head suddenly feels heavy and light at the same time, dizzy and spinning and hurts his aching muscles. But he’s not going to back down on this.
“Please lay down,” the nurse says. “Adam, I need you to lay down now.” When Adam doesn’t, her hands go to his shoulders and he’s pressed back against the mattress.
“Stop,” he says, but no one listens. No one is fucking listening. There’s nothing wrong with him; he’s used to feeling awful, and he can feel his bank account dwindling with every second he’s stuck in this bed with all of this shit attached to him.
“Do you think you can go back to sleep?” Calla asks. “Rest is probably the best thing for right now.”
“I need a phone. I need to call Aglionby and the factory and Boyd’s,” Adam says. “I can’t be fired or arrested for truancy.”
“It’s taken care of,” Calla says. “I called all of them. You’re excused.” She hopes that it would be enough to dispel the latest Parrish spiral, but it seems to have made him gone rigid.
“I don’t believe you. I need to call,” Adam responds.
“It’s one in the morning, Adam. You need to get some rest.” Adam hates that he’s exhausted. He needs to fight for this, needs to make sure he hasn’t fucked up his whole life all at once. He needs to make sure he has rent money and food money and Aglionby money and, probably fucking insulin money because he cannot repeat this.
The math is bordering on impossible in the best of times. This is not the best of times.
It doesn’t matter. Apparently math is too much for his brain, because he doesn’t realize he’s falling back asleep until he’s already there.
:: ::
He’s woken up on the hour. They try to let him sleep through exactly one scheduled prick, but then Adam jerks hard enough that something comes dislodged and now he’s woken up every time they need to do it. They do it every hour without fail. Every time Calla, who is always there with no explanation, can get him through the latest concern or fixation, he only sleeps a half an hour before the cycle repeats.
Adam is tired and he is miserable and he is finally dozing by the time there are a lot of people in the room again. He guesses it’s finally morning.
“Can I go?” Adam asks, before they can start talking about him without him.
“No,” Adam’s endocrinologist says, and Adam curses the fact that she’s somehow still here. “It doesn’t look like we’ll be able to step you down to a lower floor today, either.”
“Why is Calla here?” Adam asks, then, before they can continue with handover to the dayshift.
All the adults make eye contact at that; they really don’t want to engage in that conversation just yet. But they forget that it is Adam Parrish in the bed. He’s at 10% power and he looks between the doctors and Calla and back again and knows something is completely wrong.
And he needs to know what.
“What aren’t y’all telling me?” He can’t get his tongue to obey him, so it’s thick and slow as a Henrietta drawl should be. It inherently pisses him off. “What’s goin’ on?”
“Adam, this is a conversation we can have when you’re feeling better,” some doctor tries, but Adam just shakes his head. He’s upright, now, no matter how much things spin or how heavy he feels or how close he is to blacking out.
“Tell me,” he says, shakes off the hands that try to lay him back down. “I need to know.” His legs are dangling off of the bed now, and there are so many hands keeping him from standing. He’s tempted to thrash, but he knows that will only fuck up whatever this is more. “Get your hands off of me.” They don’t.
“Calla has been named your emergency guardian. It’s going to become permanent,” Adam’s endocrinologist says. “I will not discharge you to your own care.”
Adam’s feet are on the floor. He needs to get out of here, right now. It’s his only chance at freedom. It’s the only thing pounding in his ears, so he tries to force his legs to stand and ignores the pulling and the tugging of whatever is pulling and tugging. He takes a step and feels more things tug and heat rushes to his skull and he falls.
The world goes white with pain for a second, but his knees don’t even hit the floor. All he hears is a series of beeps, all different and out of sync, and he doesn’t even realize that hands were on him until he’s already pressed against the mattress, rails pulled up high around him.
Everything hurts. It’s so hard to focus, and he can’t force his two remaining brain cells to crash together until it’s just the one nurse, the endocrinologist, and Calla in the room. Koumani is fixing wires and pricking his finger and taking more blood from the IV. He can’t move quickly enough to stop her.
“You can’t do this,” Adam slurs out, and suddenly the endocrinologist and Calla turn to him. “I’m emancipated.”
“Adam,” the endocrinologist says, voice all serious and stern. “I understand that you’re upset, but you cannot do that again.”
“I’m not stayin’ here. I need to fix this,” Adam says, but his fingers are clumsy and he can’t find what he needs to press or unlatch in order to move the bedrail.
“Adam, I am not letting you leave.” Her voice is soft but firm. “And I’m not going to release you to your own care.”
“That’s not your decision to make.” Adam tries to reinforce his words with fire and steel, but it feels more like smoke. It’s taking all that he has to focus on what she’s even saying. “I’m an adult by law.”
“Not anymore,” the endocrinologist says. “Adam, things need to change and they need to change immediately.”
“No. This isn’t happening,” Adam says, can’t fucking find the latch or button or switch or whatever to collapse the bed rails.
“You weren’t taking insulin, you lost a significant amount of weight, and you went into diabetic ketoacidosis,” she responds calmly. “You need an adult, and we need to get your blood sugar under control.”
“I’m fine on my own,” Adam says, and he gives up on the mysterious latch and just sits up again. The room spins.
“Adam, you need to stop trying to sit up,” the endocrinologist says. Adam’s really fucking starting to hate her voice. “It’s messing with your blood pressure, and things are fragile as it is.”
“I’m fine,” Adam repeats, but neither of the women believe him. “I need a phone.”
“No. You need to rest,” that’s Calla’s voice, this time. Adam feels rage start to boil deep into his gut. But he cannot yell at her, because that would prove their point. So he has to ice over the fire and shut his mouth. He just won’t acknowledge her. At all.
“I need to speak to social services,” Adam says, is sure to keep his voice calm and controlled and directed only at the endocrinologist.
“That can definitely happen, but it’s not going to change the result,” she explains. “This is a matter of your safety.”
“I am perfectly safe on my own.” Adam is starting to feel worse by the second. He’s thirsty, but he knows they won’t give him water because he’ll throw it up. He’s tired, but he knows that if he sleeps any hope he has to fix this goes away. He’s sore and aching, but if he moves there will be hands adjusting and keeping him in one spot, and he can’t deal with that.
“We can discuss more later. When things stabilize, we’ll start talking about management,” the endocrinologist says. She goes to leave.
“I don’t want Calla in here,” Adam says, and he has to hide the surprise from showing across his face when she simply stands up.
“I’ll be right outside if you need or want anything,” she says, and then they’re both gone. It’s just Adam and the nurse.
“Are you feeling okay?” the nurse asks. “If you don’t want to lay on your back, we can move you to a side for a little bit.”
“Can we not talk?” Adam’s voice cracks. “Please.”
“Okay. Do you want to lay on your side?” Adam just nods, and he immediately rolls over. There’s a lot of beeping, and then the nurse is over by the bed quickly. Adam’s face is scrunched against the noise. “Okay. Let me detangle this and then it’ll stop.”
That’s all she does. Without asking, she goes to get a blanket off of the warmer and replaces the top one with it. Adam hums a little, but his eyes are closed.
“Adam, are you okay?” the nurse asks. “Is there anything I can do?”
Adam just shakes his head. He’s trying to do the mental math on what he needs to do, on how much he owes Aglionby and how much the state will cover and it’s not working. Every time he tries to force his brain to think, to do the calculations, it won’t cooperate. And he knows that it won’t be enough.
“Talk to me, Adam,” the nurse says.
“Everything is a mess,” Adam mumbles. “If I can’t overturn the custody thing, I can’t pay for school. There’s no way the state will cover enough and there’s no way I can work enough right now to cover the difference.”
“That sounds like a difficult problem,” the nurse says. “I think you can try to talk to them about it, when you’re feeling better.” What she doesn’t say is she’s going to inform Ronan and Calla of the problem, because it’s likely it can be handled without him needing to do anything and then maybe Adam will calm down about it all.
He really needs to rest. And until all of the very real and very terrifying fears and anxieties of the situation stop pinging around and through his brain, he won’t. And if he won’t rest, then he will keep stressing his body and everything will take longer. It’s already going to be a rocky journey. He is pissed at Calla, and as soon as things stop being so dangerous she will be involved. She’s going to be the one in there with the training nurse and Adam to learn how to use continuous glucose monitoring and insulin injections and all of that. She’s going to be the one to make sure he stays on track with blood sugar and weight and all of that.
The nurse just tucks Adam in, places the call button near him because he is sore and elimination of any kind of movement will help him rest, and she announces she’ll be back soon to check in on him.
Ronan and Calla are in the hallway.
“How mad is he?” Calla asks. She doesn’t look like the kind to scare easy, but that doesn’t mean that this isn’t hard. It is difficult to watch a child go through what Adam is struggling through, and it’s more difficult when even half out of it and a with a blood composition more resembling simple syrup than anything he’s fighting the people who are trying to help.
“Less mad, more anxious,” Koumani summarizes. “He’s worried about school. He doesn’t know how he’s going to pay when he knows the state won’t pay in full what the scholarship doesn’t cover, and when he knows he can’t work as much as he needs to.”
“That’s fixable.” Ronan Lynch sounds determined. “Gansey’s kept a record of all ways Aglionby has tried to fuck Adam over, and he can go all congresswoman’s son on them.” Ronan doesn’t think Adam is with it enough to be mad about Gansey stepping in. Not if it accomplishes the end game. “I’ll give him a call.”
“I think having that confirmation will help him a lot,” the nurse says. “It seems less like Calla is walking in and taking over his master plan then.”
“Have you gotten his stuff yet?” Ronan asks. “I can box up his apartment tonight if you haven’t.”
“Already done. Maura and Blue took care of it,” Calla says. Maura had described the apartment, from the empty fridge and cabinets to the dollar store candy by the mattress on the floor and the one thing of insulin in the whole place. There were several unfolded boxes that went back into their car.
“Am I on his shit list or can I go in after I make the call?” Ronan asks the nurse.
“I don’t think so,” she replies. “Keep an eye on him and hit the call button if something seems off. I’ll be in and out, though.”
Ronan just sighs.
:: ::
The next time Adam wakes up, Calla is in the room. He guesses it’s late, because even the hall lights are low; his entire body is sore and he’s thirsty and he doesn’t even want to flex his fingers because they are all bruised. He’s too tired to argue about it.
“Water?” Adam asks. He thinks it’s more of a croak. It’s been awhile since he’s had anything by mouth. Not that he’s hungry. At all. He’s just thirsty.
“Probably in the morning. Your electrolytes are still a little off,” Calla says. “The nurse can do a mouth swab, if you think it’ll help.”
“No.” Those are not satisfying—they make his mouth damp but he can never get enough to swallow a drop of water. “What time is it?”
“Almost three in the morning. The nurse will be coming in soon for more labs and a blood sugar check,” she says.
“What am I at?” Adam mumbles. His entire body is sore, heavy, and uncooperative. “They gonna take me off the drip?”
“Down to 450. They’re hoping to get you below 200 and step you down at the end of the day or tomorrow morning.” Calla’s voice is calm. “There is some good news.”
“What?” Adam asks. Unless it’s someone handing him a gallon of water or a social worker showing up to tell him Adam is fine living by himself, he doesn’t want to hear it.
“Aglionby is worked out. State is covering what your scholarship doesn’t,” she says. She does not mention Gansey’s involvement with the board, the fight to raise his scholarship to what the state can pay.
It’s enough to get a sigh of relief.
But Adam doesn’t say anything else, either. He just waits until the nurse appears, lets her poke his finger and lets her draw blood and then he just rolls onto his side and lets her adjust the wires and tubes and everything.
He’s just tired. And hurting.
:: ::
“Remember what we talked about yesterday.” Adam’s endocrinologist is honestly the most annoying person on the planet. Second only to the new villian of a dietician. How he’s supposed to gain weight as fast as this psycho with an MD wants without sending the blood sugar spiking? Still a mystery.
Adam just rolls his eyes.
“The priorities are blood sugar control, weight gain, and rest,” she reiterates. “School isn’t on the table yet.”
Adam just fidgets, his hand going to the shoulder with the new continuous monitor. He doesn’t want it, hates the fact that Calla can see his blood sugar all the damn time and that he had to get a phone because he has to have the app to see his sugar. He hates that his apartment is already vacated and filled with a new tenant, hates that he has to go back to the witches’ den.
He hates that he still feels awful.
“Can I go?” Finally, fucking finally he’s being discharged. It’s been eight days and Adam’s fingers are still bruised from the constant pricking.
“Yeah, I think you’re good to go. We’ll see you in three days,” the doctor says. Adam immediately pops up, and Calla represses a sigh.
“Do you have all of your stuff?” she asks, a pillow under one arm and a blanket under the other. She brought them because they are Adam’s, and having something familiar was helpful. Adam has his backpack on, is bundled in at least two shirts, a sweatshirt, and sweatpants.
Cold intolerance is something that will hopefully go away as Adam gains weight and gets more healthy.
There’s a lot of things that are hopefully going to go away. Adam is quiet but argumentative, itching for school and nothing else. He doesn’t want to listen to Calla, doesn’t want to listen to the endocrinologist, doesn’t want to listen to the dietician.
Adam’s pissed that he’s going to be in a car with Calla to drive forty-five minutes to get to the hospital twice a week until someone lowers it to once a week. He’s pissed that this whole process is designed to take forever.
“I’m going to be arrested for truancy,” is what he leads with, when Calla calls him into the kitchen that afternoon.
“All absences related to diabetes are excused by law,” Calla explains for the fiftieth time. “You won’t be arrested for truancy.”
“I’m going back to class next week. I need to start make-up work,” Adam says.
“Eat your snack,” Calla responds. He is not going back to class next week, because he is cleared by zero doctors to do that. But she knows directly engaging in a debate is admitting that she’s lost. The kid can argue until he’s red in the face.
But Adam eats the snack. He’s got the motivation, because as long as school is dangling in front of him he will do whatever it takes to get back on track.
After that, Calla hopes it comes together. It has to.