Page 65 of IOU

I scrunch my nose. “Why?”

He manages, “Only my friends call me Mav.”

Ialmostsmile. We are friends. He can fight it all he wants, but friends don’t let friends lose a game of Millionaire.

“Okay. I’ll rephrase. I think we need to call for help,Dummy.”

In the midst of dying, he manages to roll his eyes before his head falls back against the footboard. “We can’t call anyone.”

“Why?” I mean, what the hell? “The apartment is clean, and I can stash whatever you want to hide in my room. Please let me call someone.” I want to adddummyagain onto the end of my plea, but I refrain. I am serious—this is serious. We need help.

“I’ll go to the hospital if you will take me,” he says with horror-stricken eyes like he can’t believe he suggested such a thing. “Just you, though. You can’t tell anyone.”

Of course. Whatever. “I’ll take the fact that you do actually have a heart to the grave,” I return, crossing my heart.

I stand to get my bag and keys. “But, Mav ...” I don’t care that he doesn’t want me to call him that. I don’t have time to say his whole name.

His eyes are heavy, and he looks exhausted. “Yeah?”

“You promise you aren’t going to die on me?”

He’s still shaking, but he stares at me, locking eyes. “I promise I won’t die on you.”

With that, I race off and grab my keys and bag, snagging a pair of Mav’s sweats that ended up in my laundry—fine, I stole them—and one of my larger T-shirts, shoving them in my bag. When I get back to Mav, he’s standing, looking like a sick mess.

“Lean on me,” I tell him, wedging myself under his arm. He looks at me like he’d rather fall down the steps and die before using me for help, but I grab his arm anyway and force him forward. He eventually goes with it, and it’s not that terrible. We hustle as much as one dying man can hustle, taking the steps excruciatingly slow until we reach the bottom and my car.

I open the door to the passenger side. “Get in,” I order him.

The frown I’m used to seeing makes its appearance.

He doesn’t move.

“Fine.” I put my hands up. “Be a stubborn ass.”

I trot around the front end of the car and watch as Mr. I-don’t-need-your-help slams his door shut and opens it back up himself.

I smile. He’s so ridiculous.

When he’s finally in and settled, I speed off to the nearest hospital, trying to ignore his shitty remarks. “I would have been better off dying in the apartment. At least then, my family would have a body to bury. The way you’re driving, and your history with fire, we’re sure to end up a pile of ash.”

“You were better off calling an ambulance about an hour ago, smartass. Why did you wait so long?”

He doesn’t look so smug now. “I can usually convert the rhythm on my own.”

I glance over, catching his sweat-soaked face still strained.

“This happens a lot?” I ask.

“Occasionally.”

He would never admit exactly how often.

“Do you take medicine for it?” Clearly, he knows what he’s supposed to do when this happens.

“No.”

“Why not? Do they not have medicine to treat”—I wave my hand between us—“whatever this is?”

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