The Goth boy stares at me, and I give him a what-are-you-looking-at stare right back. Im dead, he says in a dull monotone. Pardon me? Adriana asks, but he keeps staring at me. Youre dead, too. Look at your veins. Theyre blue. He points at my forearms where dark veins run their lengths. Youre rotting like me. I glance to Adriana, hands clasped and praying that she wont leave me here. Adrianas stopped crying now and squints at the boy before standing to pull closed the curtain that rings my cot. Crazy, she says with an uncertain smile. Youre not rotting. . . . ninety-nine, one hundred . No, I reply. But I will if you leave me here.
