Revived (Cat Patrick)

missions and soda orders from memory are any indication, he might like me, too.
    By one in the afternoon, I’m clean, fed, and almost human again. Matt starts a movie and we both sit back against the headboard to watch. I hug a pillow to my torso and try to pay attention during the first five, then ten, then fifteen minutes. But something is gnawing at me.
    “Why hasn’t Audrey called?” I ask, my eyes still on the TV.
    “Shh,” Matt says, waving a hand at me. I’m quiet for five more minutes, all the while wondering if I’ve royally screwed up my friendship with Audrey. But I can’t for the life of me figure out how .
    “Seriously, Matt, is she mad at me or something?”
    “No,” he replies without looking in my direction.
    “How do you know?” I ask.
    “I just know.”
    I try to focus on the characters in the movie, but my thoughts turn to Friday night at the mall. It was only two days ago, but it feels like a lifetime. I think of the ride home, and of Audrey’s distractedness. If she’s not mad at me, then what could it be?
    Then I remember Friday’s barfing taco incident, and the fact that she lied about it. And her raspy breath at the movie. Her sweaty forehead afterward.
    “Is something wrong with Audrey?” I ask, grasping. Matt’s face snaps toward mine.
    “What do you mean?” he asks, more confrontational than questioning. His defensiveness tells me that I’ve hit on something.
    “It’s just that her voice always seems raspy and she gets tired easily and Friday, after the movie, she looked super out of it and…” My voice trails off. It sounds silly when I say it aloud. Except Matt is staring at me as if I just ran over his dog.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask softly. Without thinking too much about it, I reach out and touch my fingertips to his. I’m surprised by my confidence, but I don’t move my fingers from his. Matt turns his head away, but he doesn’t move his fingers, either.
    “I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says flatly.
    “Tell me what?” I ask, annoyed. “It’s so lame when people keep secrets. I—”
    And then he says it.
    “Audrey has cancer.”

thirteen
    At three o’clock, there’s a note waiting under Mason’s door at the hotel in Kansas City, and Matt and I are more than halfway to Omaha.
    We haven’t spoken for miles, but it’s a comfortable silence, not the kind when you’re scrambling for something to say. I can’t explain how it happened, but sometime between waking up with him in my bed and riding next to him now, my nervousness with Matt has faded. It’s not quite automatic, like it is with Audrey or Megan, but when Matt and I talk, it’s easier. And when we don’t talk, it’s easier then, too. Even though my chest feels full, my knee is still and my breathing is steady. Despite the heavy thoughts in my head, Matt’s presence is making me calm.
    The particular stretch of road we’re on has a funny tread: The sound of the tires against the pavement makes me think of a zipper quickly going up and down, over and over. The strange rhythm lulls me into a zoned-out state where all I can do is listen to my internal dialogue.
    Audrey’s dying.
    She’s really dying.
    I ran off without telling Mason.
    I want to help Audrey.
    There’s nothing I can do about Audrey.
    Wow… it all makes sense. The hurling. Her mom letting her do everything she wants. The sad looks at school.
    Is it terminal?
    It has to be terminal. Yes, Matt’s face says it is.
    I’m going to get in trouble.
    Getting in trouble is insignificant compared to what Audrey’s going through.
    I’ve never been in trouble.
    Stop acting like a child. Audrey’s DYING!
    Yes, but…
    Wow. I have a warped view of death.
    And finally:
    I want to tell Matt about Revive.
    The last thought startles me. I gasp, but the sound of the road blocks it from Matt’s ears. Never in my life have I dared to consider telling anyone about the program, and yet it would be so easy to open my mouth and let it out right now. I could tell him that I’m not exactly normal when it comes to thoughts on death. I could explain that being part of a program that makes death optional is sort of like wearing a protective suit through life. That it gives me confidence that other kids don’t have. Like when I was younger and I took swimming lessons, I didn’t bawl on the side of the pool like everyone else did because I wasn’t afraid of drowning. Sure, I didn’t want to drown—I knew what it felt like—but