Apparently, I was not fine.

And then I heard him. Long strides running down the hall, boots scuffing around the corner, the squeal on the linoleum as he skidded into the room. “What’s wrong? What happened?” He panted as he scanned the faces in the room.

“See for yourself, Decker,” Dad said, stepping back from the bed.

Decker’s dark hair hung in his gray eyes, and purple circles stretched down toward his cheekbones. I’d never seen him so pale, so hollow. His gaze finally landed on me.

“You look like crap,” I said, trying to smile.

He didn’t smile back. He collapsed on the other side of my bed and sobbed. Big, body-shaking sobs. His bandaged fingers clutched at my sheets with every sharp intake of breath.

Decker was not a crier. In fact, the only time I’d seen him cry since it became socially unacceptable for a boy to be seen crying was when he broke his arm sliding into home plate freshman year. And that was borderline acceptable. He did, after all, have a bone jutting out of his skin. And he did, after all, score the winning run, which canceled out the crying.

“Decker,” I said. I lifted my hand to comfort him, but then I remembered the last time I tried to touch his hair, how he swatted me away. Six days ago, that’s what they said. It seemed like only minutes.

“I’m sorry,” he managed to croak between sobs.

“For what?”

“For all of it. It’s all my fault.”

“Son,” Dad cut in. But Decker kept on talking through his tears.

“I was in such a goddamn rush. It was my idea to go. I made you cross the lake. And I left you. I can’t believe I left you. . . .” He sat up and wiped his eyes. “I should’ve jumped in right after you. I shouldn’t have let them pull me back.” He put his face in his hands and I thought he’d break down again, but he took a few deep breaths and pulled himself together. Then he fixed his eyes on all my bandages and grimaced. “D, I broke your ribs.”

“What?” That was something I would’ve remembered.

“Honey,” Mom said, “he was giving you CPR. He saved your life.”

Decker shook his head but didn’t say anything else. Dad put his hands on Decker’s shoulders. “Nothing to be sorry for, son.”

In the fog of drugs that were undoubtedly circulating through my system, I pictured Decker performing CPR on the dead version of me. In health class sophomore year, I teamed up with Tara Spano for CPR demonstrations. Mr. Gersham told us where to place our hands and counted out loud as we simulated the motion without actually putting any force into it.

Afterward, Tara made a show of readjusting her D-cup bra and said, “Man, Delaney, that’s more action than I’ve had all week.” It was more action than I’d had my entire life, but I kept that information to myself. Rumors about me and Tara being lesbians circulated for a few days until Tara took it upon herself to prove that she was not, in fact, a lesbian. She proved it with Jim Harding, captain of the football team.

I brought my hand to my lips and closed my eyes. Decker’s mouth had been on my own. His breath in my lungs. His hands on my chest. The doctor, my parents, his friends, they all knew it. It was too intimate. Too private, and now, too public. I made sure I wasn’t looking at him when I opened my eyes again.

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Logan said, saving me from my embarrassment, “but I need to conduct a full examination.”

“Go home, Decker,” Dad said. “Get some rest. She’ll be here when you wake up.” And Mom, Dad, and Decker all smiled these face-splitting smiles, like they shared a secret history I’d never know about.

The other doctors filed back in, scribbling on notepads, hovering over the bed, no longer lingering near the walls.

“What happened?” I asked nobody in particular, feeling my throat close up.

“You were dead.” Dr. Klein smiled when he said it. “I was here when they brought you in. You were dead.”

“And now you’re not,” said a younger, female doctor.

Dr. Logan poked at my skin and twisted my limbs but it didn’t hurt. I couldn’t feel much. I hoped he’d start the detubing process soon.

“A miracle,” said Dr. Klein, making the word sound light and breathy. I shut my eyes.

I didn’t feel light and breathy. I felt dense and full. Grounded to the earth. Not like a miracle at all. I was something with a little more weight. A fluke. Or an anomaly. Something with a little less awe.

My throat was swollen and irritated, and I had difficulty speaking. Not that it mattered—there was too much noise to get a word in anyway. I had a lot of visitors after the initial examination. Nurses checked and rechecked my vitals. Doctors checked and rechecked my charts. Dad hurried in and out of the room, prying information from the staff and relaying it back to us.