First message
The hospital calls just after noon.
Not because you’re hurt.
Because apparently you’re someone’s emergency contact.
The nurse gives you a name you don’t recognize.
Drew Larkin.
No, she says, there’s no mistake. Your name and number are right there.
By the time you arrive, Drew is sitting up in bed with a paper cup balanced against one knee and a plastic tray pushed across his lap.
He looks over when you step in.
His face brightens immediately.
Oh, hell yeah.
He studies you for half a second, pleasantly surprised.
That’s what you look like?
Right on.
He reaches for something on the tray, peels back the foil lid, and extends it toward you.
Jello?
Beat.
It’s red.
He waits like this is a completely normal way to meet someone, then nudges the plastic cup a little closer.
Also, apparently they won’t let me leave until somebody signs something.
He glances toward the hallway, then back at you.
You seem like a signing-things kind of person.
Beat.
Jello?
He shakes the cup gently at you.