Chapter Text
Preface:
**Finn**
I couldn’t breathe.
My lungs were unraveling, slowly, cruelly, all at once. Every inhale tore me open.
I gripped the stairs railing, hot liquid metal spilling between my teeth as I coughed and coughed and coughed. The sound devoured everything. It was all I could hear, all I could be.
Muffled voices floated somewhere above me like I was drowning in a bathtub, shallow and softly deadly.
I wanted to say I was fine, that this was just another flare up, another storm I’d weather. But it wasn’t. And I wasn’t fine.
I was dying.
Okay, that part wasn’t new. Dying had been the quiet backdrop of my entire life. We were practically best friends, the grim reaper and I.
But this…this was different. This felt final. Like if I closed my eyes—which burned with tears already—I would never open them again. My chest squeezed in a way it hadn’t done before, cold claws stealing my air before I could even chase it. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t—
Somewhere in the blur, I realized I’d collapsed. I didn’t remember falling.
And then there was blood. My blood.
Dark and scary and thick like syrup in my throat. It trailed from my lips onto the scratched-up wood step. I was vaguely reminded of when Celia and I were kids, when we’d brush our teeth together, and I’d let the foamy toothpaste overflow in my mouth just to make her laugh. It would always burn my tongue, but pain was just another insignificant trouble when you were someone like me. Someone who was forced to remember those small moments, like brushing my teeth with my sister. Like making her laugh… Like…
Don’t blink.
My shoulders were shaking, or maybe someone was shaking them. I turned over, and suddenly I could see the ceiling, so very far away. I coughed and coughed and coughed, choking on the blood. I was drowning in my own bodily fluids, how pathetic was that?
I imagined it on my tombstone: death by self-betrayal.
I could laugh right then.
I could die laughing.
Maybe that would show Time who was boss.
But the humor passed.
It wasn’t funny, because that joke basically summed up my whole life, didn’t it? It was always me versus my body, me versus my sickness. A constant struggle for power, and I was finally losing.
Focus on something real before it’s gone.
The floor. The patch of floor I laid on, right where the stairs bent and you came across another, shorter flight of steps to Mom and Dad’s room. The little slab of floor was cold against my neck, so cold. And someone was screaming my name, voice cracking like glass.
I knew that voice. It always came back to me. He always came back to me.
Ezra.
I tried to concentrate on his name. His face. His voice. But everything was getting quieter still, and the ache in my chest, my lungs, my throat, it was all beginning to fade into the oblivion…
No. No
no
no
no
come back—
I forced myself to listen.
“Finny, please.”
Ezra?
I could still hear him. Of course I could. He always came back to me. Always.
I’m okay, I told him,
pinky swear.
As long as you stay, I’ll never le
—
**TWO AND A HALF MONTHS PRIOR**
Finn
I couldn’t breathe, laughter caught in my chest.
This morning, I texted Ezra a stick figure comic:
Panel One: someone sneezes.
Panel Two: everyone else, “Bless you!”
Panel Three: the same person coughs.
Panel Four: silence.
Caption: “So I guess I’ll just die.”
His response had come a minute later:
Ezzy: not funny
I snorted, head falling back against the wall. He didn’t appreciate my self-deprecating jokes.
But who cared? The hilarious part was his reaction—or lack thereof.
Me: Yeah ur right
Ezzy: i literally can see you laughing from here
I could see him, too, glaring daggers at me, just across the yard in his room. I cracked up again.
I was tucked into my window nook, the one Celia always said made me look like a cat in the sun. My knees were hugged to my chest, the spine of The Outsiders balanced between them to hold it open. I’d read it a billion times before, but what could I say? I liked rereading stories and knowing the end. That way I had some power over tragic endings. (Let’s be honest, I cried for Dally every time).
One wired headphone in, I hummed along to “Heroes” by David Bowie and doodled lazy loops in the book’s margins. I guess what I meant to be doing was annotating, but I always ended up sketching instead. M-shaped birds, overly fat stars, whatever my restless hands decided. My teachers would probably faint if they saw the state of my books.
But I was definitely not going to be worrying about teachers for another 11 weeks.
Summer!
It was the first official day of—you guessed it. I would be a senior in a few months, but that was light-years away. Summer was timeless.
Everyone else my age was probably out roller skating at the rink, or tanning at the lake, or living a life big enough to fit in a teen movie montage. Me? I was still in my pajamas at 2 p.m., drawing stick men in the margins of a book that had been through enough. Not exactly healthy adolescent behavior.
But it wasn’t like I knew how to roller skate anyway. And it wasn’t like I was ever healthy in the first place. My lungs would collapse before my balance on wheels did. Still, part of me wanted to try. Just once.
I flipped a page with one hand, the other tapping lightly against my chest—an old habit I never really thought about apart from when I was in public. Then I just felt like a weirdo.
Tap tap tap.
At first I thought it was part of the song, some quiet drums or something, then I thought it might’ve been my fingers tapping at my shirt. But my chest was not rock solid, unfortunately. Or hollow. So when it came again, louder, I realized it was the glass of the middle window being knocked on by a certain someone.
I pulled out my earphone, hit pause, and looked up.
Ezra Ashford, the most brooding of best friends, was leaning against the thick trunk of the oak tree between our houses. There used to be a fence in the middle, but my dad took it down just so Ezra and I could travel to and from.
His window was wide open. He’d obviously clambered through it to mine, same as he had a hundred—no, probably a thousand—times since we were five. His ability to fit through small spaces, being five feet, 11 inches tall (let’s not get on about how I am forced to know that), was ridiculous, like he was born part-cat.
Rolling my eyes, even though my chest felt a little lighter just seeing him there, I unlatched my window and pushed it open to let him in.
Ezra
Climbing through Finn’s window was second nature by now. My long ass legs should’ve made it awkward, but I’d done it so many times it felt like I could do it in my sleep. Finn scooted over the second I appeared, grin already on his face, like he’d been waiting for me.
I plopped down onto the nook beside him, careful not to bump into his book. The sunlight caught in his honey-like hair, turning it almost gold. His eyes were as warm as hot cocoa during the winter, like they always were. I didn’t over-scrutinize him like I used to, but I still let my gaze run over him quickly, just to check.
Chest rising steady enough? Check. Color in his skin? Check. No blue lips. No trembling hands. It had become a routine I couldn’t shake. Finn knew I did it—he always caught me—but I couldn’t stop. What if the one time I didn’t look, something happened?
He grinned wider, like he could read my thoughts. Maybe he could.
“Finn,” I acknowledged finally, my voice coming out low.
“Ez,” he said back, all sun and freckles. “That one was the best one yet.”
I glared when he mentioned the little comic strip he’d dutifully sent me. “It really wasn’t. Don’t joke about that kinda stuff.”
He tactfully ignored me and leaned forward, shoulder brushing mine.
“First day of summer,” he announced like it was breaking news. “What should we do to celebrate?”
I shrugged, because I never knew how to answer questions like that. He wanted big, cinematic answers. Parties. Bonfires. Beach trips. Things everyone else I knew more than half our school friends were posting about. Things he couldn’t do.
“Celebrate?” I repeated instead.
Finn rolled his eyes at me again and tipped his head back against the wall, humming something I dimly recognized. “We’re celebrating…not having to wake up at 5:20 every morning. Isn’t that reason enough to do something?” he asked, eyebrows bouncing up.
“True,” I said slowly, letting him have his moment. Then, before he could doodle another crooked curly-q in the corner of his book, I stole it out of his hands.
The margin was cluttered with little sketches—illegible notes, birds and spirals tangled like his thoughts. I couldn’t help but smile. “The Outsiders again?”
“Duh,” he said, laughing, too hard, too sudden. The laugh broke off into a cough, sharp and raw.
The smile faded into a tight line before I could stop it. I rubbed his back automatically, palm moving in steady circles like I’d done a million times. Like if I pressed hard enough, I could help his lungs remember how to work. He joked about his condition daily, but that didn’t make him better.
He waved me off after a second, his coughs turning into ragged breaths. “M’ fine,” he muttered, brushing my hand away like he always did.
But I wasn’t fine. I never was when he sounded like that. Which was daily.
“What should we do?” he asked quickly, like if he asked fast enough I would forget the sound of him choking on air. “For our first day?”
I leaned back against the wall, trying to think. Finn was staring out the window now, sunlight softening the sharp angles of his too-thin face. Always dreaming of big, bright things. If I suggested something wrong, something he’d want to do, I didn’t want to see him disappointed when his parents turned it down.
“You tell me,” I said finally, which was probably a bad idea. “What counts as a celebration?”
Finn’s head whipped back toward me, a smile tugging at his mouth as though I’d just given him permission to redo the universe. “Hmm.” He tapped his chin, eyes sparkling like he already had some ridiculous idea. “Flying to New York City?”
I gave him a look. Of course. He’d been talking about New York since forever. Said he was going to go there at least once before he died. Which, in Finn’s head, was set at age fifty. Like he had an actual expiration date on his back.
“Or…” I drawled, letting the word stretch while I thought of something safer, something real. “Maybe we think Twinleather Falls size? Like going to the park. I bet Celia would want to come.”
He huffed like I’d just suggested we go count grass blades. “Maybe.”
I nudged him with my elbow. “We’ve been over this. You know flying isn’t safe for you. It’s too—”
“I know, I know,” he cut me off. “Less oxygen, dry air, cramped space, higher risk of infection, imminent death. Blah blah blah.”
I bit my tongue. He hated when I reminded him. But it wasn’t just me being dramatic—it was fact. And I hated that facts were my enemy in this case.
Finn sat there for another moment, stewing, his jaw tight. Then he let out a breath, slow and steady. He sat up straighter. “Fine. Park. I’ll ask Celia. CELIA!”
Nothing.
“CELIAAA!”
His sister’s room was right across the hall; she had to have heard the first time. Maybe she was ignoring him for once.
The door opened at last, and Celia, Finn’s older sister, came in with her long brown hair pinned away from her face and her back stiff like she was ready to fight off his cough attacks or something. “What? What? Are you okay?” she questioned exasperatedly. Her eyes scanned him immediately, sharp and worried.
But Finn wasn’t coughing. He looked fine. I could see the suspicion soften in her, but only just.
“Hey, Ezra,” she said wearily after a moment with a small nod.
“Hey,” I replied, giving a little wave. Celia and I weren’t as close as Finn and I were—no one was—but we always knew each other through him. Not to mention the unspoken understanding between us. We were both in the same trench, fighting the same enemy. Trying to keep Finn well. It consumed everything else, but no one ever had the right to complain. Not that I minded.
“Wanna come with us to the park?” Finn asked, grin returning like it had been waiting just under the surface.
“Now?” Celia sat down on his bed, crossing her arms.
“Yeah,” Finn said, practically bouncing.
“Fresh air,” I added. I didn’t really care about the park. I was just hoping Celia would go along with it so Finn wouldn’t go back to the thought of NYC.
Celia eyed us both, probably thinking of any possible risks (there were always too many). Then she sighed. “Fine.”
Finn lit up, triumphant.
And that was how I found myself agreeing to spend my first day of summer at the park. Because when Finn wanted something, he had a way of pulling everyone into his orbit and making it happen, no matter how impossible it was. That was just Finn.
Before we even left the house, Finn’s parents made sure he had his bronchodilator inhaler tucked into his pocket and that he’d taken his pancreatic enzyme supplements with a snack. Erin and Ryder Hollow hovered like they always did, hovering without shame, because someone had to make sure he survived the day.
In the car, Finn chattered endlessly about his summer plans. Big, messy, glorious ideas. Trips to the amusement park, roller skating, going to Disney Land, visiting New York in his dreams, spontaneous In-and-Out runs. Celia and I listened like we always did, half entertained, half dreadful.
I stole a glance at him in the passenger seat, hair still tousled from sleeping late, lips moving fast to keep up with his mind. He looked so small in that seat, but the energy he carried could fill a room.
“What about you, Ezra?” I blinked when my name was mentioned. Maybe I hadn’t been listening as intently as I thought, because the car suddenly came back into focus at Finn’s words.
He was looking at me expectantly, like he really wanted to hear what I had to say. Knowing him, he did. That’s what drove me mad.
I looked away. “Me?” I said quietly, eyes focused on the road.
“Yeah,” he said earnestly. “Any personal plans?”
“The usual,” I answered slowly. “Beach trips, the pool, the lake—”
“Okay, Aquaman.”
I ignored Celia’s remark. “—and, oh! I think there’s gonna be a Twinleather drive-in theater next month. We should go.”
Finn perked up. “What movie?”
“Probably Grease again,” I drawled.
“I like Grease,” Finn said, sounding offended.
I laughed. “Who said I didn’t?”
“You implied it.”
“Nope.”
“You thought it.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“I know you.”
“Well—“
“Boys!” Celia exclaimed from the back, kicking Finn’s seat as he punched my arm. I chuckled as I slow at a stoplight, hoping the whole summer would be like this.
By the time we got to the park, the sun was high above our heads, the sky blue and cloudless. There were green rolling hills, a few swing sets scattered around, and only a handful of families chasing around their rowdy kids. Quiet and perfect.
Finn barely waited for me to turn off the engine. He pulled out his inhaler, puffed a few breaths, and practically shot out of the car like a bullet.
I got out the car and jogged after him. He was always faster than you expected, sprinting up the side of the hill with a grin that could have melted the sun itself.
“Finn! Slow down!” I shouted fruitlessly, but my voice was lost in his laughter.
He skidded to a stop at the crest, arms wide, head tilted to the sky. “Look!”
I reached his side, chest tight, not just from running. My eyes scanned him like I always did. Breathing okay? No wobble to his legs?
Finn looked fine. Better than ever. Still, my heart thumped painfully against my ribcage.
Celia caught up to us, hands on her hips and eyebrows furrowed. “You’re ridiculous,” she said, but her tone held amusement more than scolding.
Finn spun around, tugging my sleeve. “Come on, we can race to the bottom of the hill! Or, hey, what about rolling down? You’ve never rolled down a hill with me before!”
I laughed, even though I didn’t mean to, and shook my head. “You’re lucky if I don’t push you down the hill,” I said.
He ignored me entirely, already crouched at the top of the hill, ready to launch himself down.
“How about we run, not roll?” I suggested. Celia hummed from behind me, and I wasn’t sure if she was agreeing or glaring daggers into the back of my head.
Finn shrugged and sang, “Alright. But be prepared to lo-ose.”
“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Celia tugged Finn to his feet by the collar. Definitely not agreement then. “If you die—”
“I won’t!” Finn shot back, chest heaving.
“Oh, well, now I’m sure,” she muttered sardonically.
“You can race too if you want,” he offered, eyes sparkling at her.
“I’m good, thanks,” she said flatly, though I could tell she was silently sniffing out every danger in the air. Celia was always like that.
Finn stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry at her. Then he pivoted towards me. “Okay. If I make it first, you buy me ice cream.”
I sighed, kneeling down and planting my hands in the soft grass. “And what do I get if I win?”
“Whatever you want,” he shrugged, his grin growing wider.
I rolled my neck and glanced down at the base of the hill. I didn’t want him to win too easily, didn’t want him to think I was letting him. Well, not that I’d do that; I was too competitive.
“Three…two…one!” Finn declared, and like his life depended on it, he bolted down the hill. If he wasn’t sick, maybe he could’ve done track. That was mean of me to think about, though.
Not so far behind, I sprinted after him, feeling the way my muscles flexed and tightened with each stride. When I joined the swim team, I learned that if you consistently worked out, you started to feel every part of your body. You recognized its limits and how it functioned.
The brain was similar, a muscle in its own way. If you spent enough time in your head, you began to understand why you felt the things you felt. You became…emotionally aware. It just wasn’t as easy as physical exercise for me.
Finn laughed that crazy, reckless laugh, his Star Wars t-shirt billowing behind him. I used to made fun of him for it because he’d never even seen the movies.
And then I was right behind him, about to pass him up—
He suddenly stumbled on something that must’ve been a hidden root (or more likely his own feet). My heart jumped. “Finn!” I called. He nearly caught himself, but he ended up twisting and rolling through the grass. He slowed at the bottom in a tumble of limbs, laughter still spilling out of him.
I reached him seconds later, crouching beside him. “You are insane,” I muttered, exhaling shakily.
“I know!” he wheezed, bright-eyed and wild. “Did I win?”
I rolled my eyes, plopping down next to him. “In theory.”
He laughed again, face tilted towards the sky as he tried rubbing grass stains off his shirt to no avail.
Celia came up behind us a few minutes later, strolling down the hill. She looked pissed. We were waiting patiently on the ground, chests rising and falling as we caught our breath.
“You fell,” she said, tone somewhere between exasperation and fact.
“I’m aware. Wasn’t that awesome?” Finn grinned up at her, face still pink from running.
She frowned, fingers digging into her sides. “You need to be more careful. Your lungs aren’t the only thing that can get hurt. Your bones are weaker than normal—”
“Celia,” Finn uttered, leaning his head back like she’d just said something mildly inconvenient. “I’m trying not to think about all that. Okay?”
She sighed, her dark eyes softening just slightly. “Fine. Let’s hang out for a little while longer. Then go get ice cream.”
Finn cheered. I couldn’t help but smile.
Celia
As promised, we went for ice cream. Ezra, true to his word, bought Finn’s, too. We slid into a booth at the parlor, and Finn popped a couple enzymes pills in his mouth before tearing into his bowl.
Ezra, Finn’s best friend since forever, sat beside him, silent as ever. I watched the tiniest twitch of a smile flicker on his lips. He watched Finn like he was watching the sun—equal parts kind and blinded and terrified. I’d known Ezra for many years. The way he looked at Finn never changed. It was endearing.
Finn noticed us staring. He licked his spoon slowly, narrowing his eyes at us like he’d caught us doing something suspicious. “You guys are quiet,” he said, tapping his spoon against the bowl. “What’s with the long faces?”
I leaned back in the cracked leather booth, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear and trying to play it casual. “Just thinking about college. And, you know, responsibility.” It was a little white lie. Frankly, there was never a moment I wasn’t thinking about college. My gaze flicked to him, and the words slipped out before I could stop them. “I worry about leaving you here, Finny.”
He waved me off like I’d said something ridiculous, but his smile tilted curiously. “I’ll be fine, Ce. I’ve got Ezra, and Mom, and Dad.”
He dug back into his ice cream, oblivious as usual, laughing at something Ezra just muttered. But I hung onto his words. Would he really be fine? How would I make sure of it?
I leaned forward on my elbows, watching the two of them like a hawk. “So,” I began, “has this been a good enough first day of summer for you two?”
“Yes!” Finn said, spooning a mound of vanilla ice cream into his mouth with that boyish optimism that always made him seem younger than seventeen. And no waffle cones for him, of course. He hated the taste of it because he was a weirdo. Plastic bowls, plastic spoons.
My mind wandered as minds tend to do. “So, has this been a good enough first day of summer for you two?”
It had sounded like a simple question, but for me, it wasn’t. I was already counting the days until August, when I’d be off to a college a few hours away in San Francisco. The thought made my chest ache and flutter simultaneously.
I was 19. I knew people looked at me and thought I was just drifting, that I took my gap year because I couldn’t decide what to do. But the truth was, I’d already decided a long time ago. The only reason I waited a year was because I wanted time to research, to prepare, to watch over Finny.
And I wanted to be the one who made something better than Trikafta.
Trikafta was a medicine for people with Cystic Fibrosis—like my brother—a genetic disease where a tiny mistake in your DNA made your body produce super thick, sticky mucus. That mucus clogged up the lungs, pancreas, and other organs. It made it hard to breathe, hard to digest food, and led to lots of infections.
Before Trikafta, CF was mostly treated with inhalers, nebulizers, chest therapy, enzymes, antibiotics—things that treated the symptoms, not the root problem.
What made Trikafta so groundbreaking was that instead of just managing symptoms, it helped the faulty protein work properly. Thinner mucus, better lung function, easier breathing, better digestion.
So don’t get me wrong. Trikafta was a miracle. I’d watched it buy my brother time, watched it buy days that tasted sweeter because they might not have existed at all. I’d seen him sit at the dining table without coughing every two minutes. I’d slept through the night without being woken up by his painful hacking and crying. I’d seen him run up a hill without it seeming like the air was made of glass.
But Trikafta wasn’t forever. It was not a cure. It was a borrowed light, and one day, it could flicker out.
And that thought scared me.
So here was my plan: I’d go to the University of San Francisco for pre-med. Grind through chemistry, through all the bio labs that made people weep. I’d take the MCAT and crush it, not because I was smarter than everyone else but because I had skin in the game. Because every question about a protein channel or a faulty gene was him. It was Finn.
Then I would fight my way into med school, hopefully UCSF, where the real magic happened. I’d learn every pathway, every mutation, every molecular hiccup that turned air into a war zone for people like him. Spend years in residency, in fellowship, breathing hospital air until I didn’t even remember what real air smelled like.
And when I finally earned that white coat, I would go further. Research. Labs. The kind of science that doesn’t sleep. I wanted to be the one to take what Trikafta started and build something permanent. Not a treatment. A cure.
And Finn might’ve acted like he was indestructible, but he wasn’t. Leaving him behind felt like abandoning a dog and handing him over to a pack of wild wolves.
But even in leaving him, I was only ever running towards a way to keep him breathing. That’s what I kept telling myself.
Because my brother deserved a lifetime, not an extension. And if no one else was going to give it to him, then I would.