46 The Meadow wrinkles on her forehead? They signal concern. The way she bites her bottom lip suggests uncertainty. When she puffs out her cheeks trouble is about to find me. Her right hand (the one sporting a diamond, two carats, formed under pressure) reaches for mine and, like a heat-seeking missile, her gaze locks onto the monitor. I think, Sorority sister, I see you. Check your face. Your reaction is worrisome. I don’t need to see my reflection to know I have turned cartoonish—graphic and exaggerated. What ought to be skin appears nothing of the sort. Blanketed with grotesque wheals this is an invasion caused by a reaction to a substance that shouldn’t be in my system and my body is breaking down to save itself. Battalions of histamine bombard soft tissue and pulverize organs. Hives form, stateless and oblivious of borders—flaming, they roll across my epidermis. This is one way we respond under duress. Materials cannot retain their shape when placed under any sort of pressure. Katherine calls for assistance as the rattling in my chest picks up. My boyfriend calls to her across the bed. His fingers close around my wrist, knuckles turning a paler shade of white. A bespectacled doctor arrives in a blur of mauve, the muscles in her jaw so taut that her veins blaze cerulean under the light. Katherine steps back and I see two wet half-moons under her arms. Her sweat smells slightly sweet, like honey mixed with mulch. The doctor asks me to focus, “Inhale please,” and I oblige. But when I open my mouth the expected rush of air is replaced by a gasp as I take in something else. 20:24 | 98/62mmHg | ♥ 95 bpm | 38.1 °C | SpO2 90% “Michael!” The raspy declaration ricochets off the walls, originating from the far corner of the room. Old Yeller sounds elderly because the underlying treble she projects is tired and overworked. The woman seems to be caught in a winding
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