I stare out my window at the bookstore’s window display of poetry anthologies, novels, and winter crafts. I imagine a woman with green eyes like mine stringing the banner across the window that reads ‘something for everyone this winter’. If she hadn’t run away, she could’ve been a co-owner of the best bookstore in the region. She may not have had me. She’d probably still be alive.

“Freja said in the interview that my mother ran away from home,” I say to Abe, still looking out at the rain. “Penny also ran away from home, and knew my mother somehow. Were they part of some sort of underground organisation? Society of the Run-Away Youth?’” I wonder, making air-quotes. “Surely, it’s just a coincidence. Thousands of teenagers have run away from home. Penny and my mother felt it was what they had to do. What do you think, Abe?” I turn to look at him. 

I don’t get an answer. Not even a sideways glance. Because his head is down and his body is shaking, like he’s touched an electric fence. His shades drop into his lap. His eyelids are fluttering.

“Abe! What’s going on?” I gasp, squeezing his shoulder hard. Shit, shit, shit! He was just starting to look better! He still feels feverish to the touch. I did first aid training once; it’s blurred over the years, apart from how to keep blood moving during a cardiac arrest. But this is a seizure. At the recognition of what’s happening, the relevant information surfaces to memory. You need to let the person have their seizure. Make sure their head is resting on something. I tilt his seat back, so he’s lying on an angle, though his head jerks against the headrest.

The person suffering the seizure may produce more saliva than usual or bite their tongue or the inside of their cheek, so roll them gently onto their side and tilt their chin upwards to assist with breathing. My hands scrabble over his little body, terrified I’ll make the situation worse. All the while, I’m trying to guess what condition Abe has. I need to slow down. I need to be faster. 

I don’t want to let a kid die. It’d be a cruel way to begin my life of isolation. A dead boy with the storm of the century swirling around him.

“Okay, I’m going to ease you onto your side,” I stutter. Carefully, I roll him over just as saliva starts to froth from his mouth. A hint of blue creeps into his cheeks. “Abe!” I shake his shoulder. “Abe, stop it!” I yell, as if he can help it. 

As I tilt his chin, he produces a string of grunts. I want to hold him tight, I really do. I have to let him have his seizure. I’ve done everything I can to ensure he’s safe and secure. He’s not wearing any tight clothing I can loosen, just the blanket still cloaked over him. How long will it last? I have a seizure is usually less than five.

It’s been longer than that now, and the convulsing hasn’t stopped. His eyes are rolling back into his head, a disturbing milky-white. I spot his prescribed medication in the footwell and snatch it up. It slips out of my hand as I unscrew the lid, spilling pills everywhere. Shit I manage to get two and place them on Abe’s tongue. They disappear down his throat. 

Nothing happens. The shuddering continues relentlessly. I don’t even know what the pills are for, with its stupid pharmaceutical name, benzodiazepine. I’ve made the situation worse by not checking the dosage on the label prior. I’ve given too much.

The next step is to call an ambulance. There’s nobody I can call. My shoulders tense, then I break down in hyperventilated sobs. Images of the boy in the clearing flash before me. Choking, gasping, collapsing. His body spasming. Outside, the wind smashes store windows. Can’t let him die. Can’t let him die! My pinky burns more than ever before. Then Abe starts vomiting.