I confirm Tyler’s address but there’s no way the paramedics can get to us unless I let them in. I beg the dispatcher to tell me how long until they get here. I can’t bear to leave Tyler like this.

The operator coaches me through it: “Can he breathe?”

“Sort of.”

I wedge another pillow behind him and one between his legs to prevent him from rolling on his back again. The operator tells me I have to go open the door now.

My hands and chest are spattered with blood, and I wipe my hands on my shirt and race down the stairs. I turn each of the three locks in the warehouse door and I hear shouting as I push it open. Four paramedics are surrounded by reporters who scream questions.

I blink against the camera flashes as I open the door wide enough for the paramedics to bring in a folding gurney. One man helps me pull the door closed against the throng and I twist the locks to keep them out.

We seem to move in slow motion as I direct the paramedics upstairs toward Tyler.

“Does this building have an elevator?” one tech asks me.

I point behind the stairs toward the freight elevator. “Fifth floor. But it takes too long.” I beg two of the paramedics who carry medical bags to follow me and we run upstairs as the other two bring up the gurney on the elevator.

I leave Tyler’s door open and lead the techs to Tyler’s bedroom loft where he’s still unconscious and panting, his skin slick with sweat. Blood is smeared around him and his face is almost white.

The paramedics assess Tyler; one man wedges a plastic brace in Tyler’s mouth to hold it open as the woman looks in his throat. My body shakes as adrenaline drains from my body, replaced by the chill of fear.

“What did he eat or drink? Did he take any drugs?” the female paramedic asks me. Her nametag says D. SWANK.

I shake my head. “I don’t know. He seemed drunk when I got home. I don’t think he does drugs.” I pinch my eyes closed, realizing just how little I know about him. I only met him a few weeks ago, and even though he’s become incredibly important to me, there are broad gaps in my knowledge about his life.

“Has this happened before? Is he epileptic? Anything about his medical history you can tell me?”

“Diabetic. He’s diabetic,” I remember, and the paramedic frowns. I grab Tyler’s small black pouch from his nightstand and shove it at her. “Here. This is his kit.”

D-whatever-that-stands-for Swank pulls a test strip from the canister and clicks the lancet pen on Tyler’s fingertip, drawing a bead of blood.

I hold my breath as the glucose meter’s screen flashes once, twice, and then lands on a number. Thirty-seven.

“Glucose,” Swank barks at her partner. The other two paramedics climb the stairs with the gurney as the first two administer something to Tyler. I hear a guttural sound and his mouth hangs open, blood seeping down his lips and chin.

The paramedics work together to hoist Tyler’s long, limp body from the bed to the gurney. They cover his lower body with a sheet and strap him down, but the blood on his face and chest looks like he’s been butchered.

“Are you family?” The female paramedic, Swank, approaches me. Her dark hair curls around her face, refusing to be tamed in her ponytail.

“No. I’m his—” I hesitate, not sure how to describe myself. “Roommate.”

“OK. Well, family only in the ambulance, but you can meet up with us at Roosevelt Hospital. You should bring him a change of clothes. Can you call his family?”

I nod, hoping I can find his phone somewhere. His mother lives in Pittsburgh and his band is also like family. If I can’t find Tyler’s phone, I’ll call Beryl.

Swank asks me a series of succinct questions that baffle me. I don’t know Tyler’s birthday, his middle name, or his mother’s name or phone number.

“What happened to Tyler?”

“Unofficially, it was probably a diabetic seizure. It happens with hypoglycemia—when blood sugar gets too low. Was he acting strangely before this happened?”

I can barely nod to confirm it because I’m so horrified I didn’t recognize the signs. My stupid brain just explained it away as being drunk because I was drunk just hours before. I was sulking about getting fired while the media systematically tore apart Tyler’s life and reputation.

I’ve never felt so low.

I follow Swank from the kitchen to the base of the loft stairs, where the male paramedics are bringing Tyler down. They pop up the wheels beneath the gurney and ensure his breathing is stable. I think I hear one of them say “coma” but Swank insists I need to go to the hospital to find out more.

I’m not family. I’m nobody. I don’t have a right to know.

The woman’s eyes scan the rest of Tyler’s loft. When they land on the stack of tabloids on the coffee table, her expression shifts with recognition. She knows who Tyler is.

Swank turns to me, but instead of asking about Tyler, she sees my bandaged wrist, the cloth flecked with Tyler’s blood. “What happened to you?”

“Fresh tattoo,” I confess, rolling my wrist to her view. “Not exactly an injury.”

Swank nods. “Get cleaned up. Take a breath—this can be scary and you need a moment to calm down. When you’re ready, you can meet us at the hospital. OK?”

Her eyes are gentle with concern. I let out a deep, shuddering breath.

I follow Tyler and the paramedics into the elevator, which takes a creaky, agonizingly slow trip down. I squeeze next to his hip and grip his hand. Tyler’s face is sallow and damp, his eyes closed.

“You’re going to be fine,” I tell him fiercely, as much for him as for me. I have no idea if he hears me.

I lean over and press my lips to his forehead, practically the only part of his face that isn’t smeared in blood. “I love you,” I whisper. “I’ll be there for you as soon as I can.”

The elevator grinds to a halt at the ground floor and a paramedic throws open the heavy metal grate, bump-bumping Tyler over the gap and up to the warehouse door.

I turn the lock and pause, fearful of what’s on the other side. I want to cover Tyler from the cameras but he’s strapped down and I don’t have anything to protect him.

When I swing open the door, the reporters explode with shouted questions. Their number has swelled to more than a dozen, including at least three video cameras that swoop over him like carrion birds.

“Get back! Get back!” I hear one of the paramedics yell, and I’m grateful for their brawn as they roll Tyler across the asphalt and hustle him into the ambulance. I’m frozen in place as the ambulance doors slam and then the cameras turn back to me, reporters demanding answers and cameras recording my blood-spattered chest.

I yank the door closed against them, hearing questions about drug overdoses and domestic violence and ugly speculations that squeeze my heart. When the locks are securely in place, I heave choking breaths just this side of retching.

I feel sick that they’re attacking him. Sick that at one point, I was supposed to be one of them.

No. I made a choice. I threw that career away as surely as I threw the mugs at Heath’s office wall. I am not one of them.

TWENTY-NINE

I do what I have to: call his family, go to the hospital, and wait. I strip off my bloody shirt and pants and step beneath the spray of Tyler’s shower to get the sticky feel of blood off me, then rebandage my wrist that still throbs from the fresh tattoo.

I repack my purse with the litter of stuff I dumped on my bed, including my dead cell phone and its charger. I look for Tyler’s phone downstairs but it’s not on the kitchen counter, in the practice space, or under the tabloids by the couches.

Upstairs, Tyler’s bedroom is a nightmare, his bed covered in bloody, rumpled sheets. I pull them back but don’t see a phone, and it’s not on the bedside table or his dresser. I can’t call it because my phone’s dead, and I don’t want to wait to charge my phone, so I keep looking, in the bedside table drawer and the pockets of shorts left on the floor.

From that angle, I spot his phone on the floor, a corner just peeking out from under the bed. I slide open the lock screen: twelve missed calls.

Most are from the band and I debate whom to call first, but one name screams at me, mocking me.

Kim Archer. Her name is saved in his contacts? There’s no other way it could appear on his phone. I die a little more inside; their connection is stronger than I thought. She has his number. He saved hers. I feel my name fading from the picture that is Tyler’s life.

I force myself to push these thoughts out of my brain and focus on what Tyler needs from me right now: his family. I scroll through his contacts and find the only name that makes sense: Cheryl Walsh. This must be his mother.

The phone rings and I tuck it under my ear, opening a backpack that leans against Tyler’s dresser, emptying it of gym clothes and refilling it with fresh clothes, shoes, and his blood sugar test kit.

Just when I expect to leave a voicemail, I hear a light-hearted woman’s voice answer. “Hey Ty, sweetie.”

I cherish the warmth in his mother’s tone but I’m about to ruin her day. “Um, hi, Mrs. Walsh? This is Stella, Tyler’s, um, roommate.”

I hear a full-throated laugh and Cheryl counters, “Oh, honey, I know better than that. The way Tyler talks, you’re the love of his life. I’m glad to hear from you.”

My mouth gapes and I struggle to find the words. The love of his life? This is the man I walked out on less than an hour ago.

“Mrs. Walsh, Tyler’s in the hospital. They think he had a diabetic seizure. He’s unconscious.”