Page 79 of Tell Me Pucking Lies
“What?” My voice cracks. “No, we can’t—the cops will—”
“He took pills,” Koa interrupts, looking at me. “You want to save him, or you want to save yourself from embarrassment?”
Tears blur my vision. “I—I don’t—”
“I’ve seen this a dozen times, Lexi.” His voice is calm. Like he’s talking about the weather. “If you want him to live, he needs the hospital. Right now.”
I press my hands to my face, sobbing. “Okay. Okay, let’s go.”
He closes the back door, gets in the driver’s seat, and floors it.
The drive to the hospital is a blur.
Koa drives like a maniac—running red lights, weaving through traffic, ignoring speed limits. I’m in the back seat with Axel’s head in my lap, stroking his hair, trying to keep him on his side like Koa told me to.
Tears keep rolling down my face. I can’t stop them.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to Axel. “I’m so sorry. I should’ve—I should’ve done more. I should’ve—”
My voice breaks.
I’m apologizing to him. To myself. To Mom. To a God I don’t believe in.
Please don’t take him. Please. I can’t lose him too.
Koa’s eyes flick to the rearview mirror. He doesn’t say anything. Just keeps driving.
We screech into the emergency entrance. Koa barely puts the car in park before he’s out, hauling Axel out of the back seat.
“Help!” I scream as we burst through the automatic doors. “Please, he took pills—he’s not responding—”
Nurses swarm immediately. Someone brings a stretcher. They load Axel onto it, start asking questions I can barely hear over the ringing in my ears.
“How many pills?”
“What kind?”
“When did he take them?”
“I don’t know,” I sob. “I don’t know. Six, maybe? He texted someone—I don’t know what kind—”
Koa steps forward. His voice is steady. “Probably oxy. Maybe fentanyl-laced. He’s been out for at least twenty minutes.”
The nurse nods, scribbles on her clipboard, and they wheel Axel away.
I try to follow, but someone stops me. “You can’t go back there. You’ll have to wait.”
“But he’s my brother—”
“We’ll update you as soon as we can. Please, have a seat in the waiting room.”
They disappear through double doors, taking Axel with them.
I stand there, frozen, staring at the doors as they swing shut.
A TV in the corner plays some late-night talk show with the volume too low to hear. There are a few other people scattered around—a woman with a crying baby, an old man holding an ice pack to his head, a couple sitting in tense silence.
I collapse into a plastic chair, elbows on my knees, face in my hands.
