Page 132

“Her inhaler,” my mom says, elbowing Faith aside. “Honey, is your inhaler in your purse?”

I’m gasping for air and I didn’t even realize it. It’s like I’ve stepped out of my body and allowed someone else to take the wheel.

My hands shake as I dig in my purse. I find the red canister, shake it, and compress it.

But nothing comes out.

I read the counter: O.

Zero.

There are no breaths left.

My body kicks into panic mode. I wheeze. My lungs burn. Air won’t enter.

“Rhett,” I squeak out.

He turns, sees me, and his entire body shifts. His expression, from calm and collected, morphs into emergency mode.

He reaches for me, but air won’t come. I can’t breathe.

The Bitty Being slips from my fingers, and I vaguely hear the sound of it hitting the floor. My gaze drops, and there it lies, shattered into dozens of pieces.

No! It was fixed. It was whole. It was healed.

Rhett grabs me. “Breathe, Cristina. Just breathe.” He turns away and yells, “Somebody get the paramedics!”

My knees go weak and the edges of my vision darken. I want to hold on, I really do.

But my legs give out and the world goes black.

Chapter 44

Rhett

She collapses in my arms. “Cristina!”

Her lips have a faint blue tinge to them. Oxygen. She doesn’t have air.

I press my ear to her mouth, straining to hear her breathing. It’s there—barely. A faint wheeze. Not enough.

Oh, God. She can’t breathe.

“Get the paramedics!” I yell again.

Dammit, they should already be here. They were on set when we endured that damn trust bridge, just waiting for someone to get hurt. They should be here now, beside her, saving her.

“Where are they?” I demand.

“Her inhaler,” Cheryl says calmly, moving into action.

She picks it up off the floor and studies it. Drops her head like she’s praying to the sky and shakes it. “There isn’t any left. Cristina, hold on, baby! Help’s coming.”

I spin around. “Mina, where are the EMTs?”

She holds up her phone, as if proving she’s talking to them. “They’re pulling into the parking lot now!”

Every second feels like an hour. I count her breaths—one shallow wheeze, pause, another. They’re too slow, too faint.