Chapter 4: The Dead of Night

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"Mimi?"

There's a pair of hands shaking me. I push them away, roll over, and put my hands over my head. The last thing I want to do right now is get up.

"Mimi, get up!"

I open my eyes to see Mark standing over the bed shaking me, wearing a pair of red flannel pajamas. During the second week of July. I mentally shake my head at him. Not only is he practically an albino, he's cold-blooded as well.

"What?" I snap. The last thing I needed was to be awakened at two in the morning by a man wearing fuzzy slippers.

"Get up, there's someone at the door."

Instantly, I'm wide awake.

"Roger?" I ask breathlessly.

"Do you know anyone else who would be knocking on our door at this hour?"

I roll over and out of bed, nearly falling over as I stand up. Since when did life get to be so hard? Mark grabs me by the shoulders and I cling to his arm until the dizziness fades.

I can hear coughing as I approach the door, and I know that it's Roger. Strange to know someone well enough to recognize them by the sound of their cough.

I wrestle the heavy door open to find Roger standing on our doorstep, looking like death warmed over. It's pouring rain out and his clothes are plastered to his body. His eyes are dull and ringed by sickly black smudges. He's pale as a ghost.

"Can-can I come in?" he asks weakly, gasping for breath.

"Hell yeah," I answer, surprised he's even asking. He does live here, after all.

He's unsteady on his feet as he walks in, and I take him by the arm and lead him over to the couch. Mark closes the door behind us, then dashes to the bathroom to get towels.

"God, Roger, where have you been?" I ask, as he practically collapses onto the couch.

"Around," he whispers roughly, "It's cold."

It's then that I notice he's shivering. Violently. Uncontrollably. I reach out and brush the back of my hand against his forehead.

"Holy shit, Roger. You're burning up."

Mark, standing a few feet away with a stack of towels in his arms, gives me an alarmed look.

"Here, take this," he instructs, handing Roger a towel, "Try to dry ff some. I'll call Maureen and get her to drive over here."

Roger starts to protest, but then dissolves into another coughing fit, worse this time.

"Tell her to hurry," I beg Mark. He nods and heads for the phone.

I sit down next to Roger and gently rub his back as he continues to cough. He grabs my hand, holding on so tightly it hurts. I squeeze back, then gently wrap my free arm around his waist, pulling him closer.

"Shhh. . .babe, it's gonna be okay. Maureen's coming. We'll get you to the hospital in no time."

Roger stiffens in my arms at my mention of the hospital.

"No!" he gasps, desperately.

"Roger, baby, what's wrong?" I ask, confused. "You need a doctor."

Finally, the coughing subsides a little and he pulls me down against his chest, still shivering. I can feel the heat of his fevered skin eve through the thing, wet t-shirt he's wearing.

"I don't want to die," he whispers against my neck.

"Roger. . ." I trail off, groping for a reply. "They can help you. They can at least make you comfortable."

"No . . ." he insists, his voice a low, agonized moan, "No, they can't. No one can help me anymore. You take me there, all they'll do is remind me I don't have much time left. They'll put a timer on my life, so I can know exactly when it will be over. I don't want to know. I don't want—" he starts to cough again and I can feel his chest heaving beneath my head.

"She's here," Mark announces finally.

Roger's so weak by now it takes both of us to get him downstairs and into Maureen's car. Mark sits up front in the passenger seat, arguing with her about her driving and the fastest route to the hospital. I climb in the back with Roger. He lies down, with his head in my lap, fading in and out of consciousness. I fell numb, detached. Like I'm watching this whole scene pay out, but I'm not really part of it.

The emergency room is packed when we arrive, but Roger is admitted immediately after Mark describes his recent diagnosis. We're told by a nurse with oily hair and bad skin that we'll have to wait out in the waiting room since we're not immediate family.

Maureen, by now completely fed up with Mark, goes off in search of coffee. I curl up on a couch, and Mark sits down beside me, glaring daggers at a black spot on the floor.

"What?" I ask him after a few minutes of silence.

"Nothing," he mutters, then sighs and shifts position to stare at a spot on the wall instead.

"Doesn't sound like nothing to me," I nag. I'm not sure why I'm so eager to know what's wrong with Mark right now, but I'm desperate for anything to keep my mind off Roger.

"I don't want to talk right now, " he insists, "Leave me alone."

"You know, if I didn't know better, Marky, I'd think you were sulking."

He turns and looks at me sharply with piercing blue eyes. Strange, I'd never noticed what color his eyes are before.

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asks in a voice I've never herd before. He sounds hurt, angry. Like he's trying not to cry.

"Well, I mean. . .you don't sulk, so . . ."

"Not like you would know." He mutters, turning his back on me.

Suddenly, I want to slap him.

"Oh no, because I don't know you at all. I only *live* with you, but I wouldn't know at all."

"Do you live with me?" he asks sarcastically. "You're always so busy screwing around with Roger, sometimes I wonder if you two even remember that I *exist* Oh, except when something goes wrong. The you have all the time in the world for me, because you need my help."

"That's not true and you know it!" I shout, causing several people to turn around and stare at us, probably thanking God that *they* have enough sense not to cause a scene. People these days. What *is* our world coming to? I almost laugh, picturing them shaking their heads.

"Oh, no?" Mark replies, snapping me back to the present, "When was the last time you bothered to ask me if *I* was okay?"

I stop short at that, realizing that I don't know.

Mark stands up, nodding.

"I thought so."

"But you're-you're always so-I don't know, it's hard to be concerned about someone who's always as collected as you are."

Mark laughs bitterly.

"Oh, that's nice. So, what then? Just because I don't have a neurotic breakdown every two seconds like you and Roger, I don't exist? Let me break something to ya, hon. I have feelings too."

"Mark, what' wrong with you tonight?" I insist, completely blown away by this outburst of emotion.

"What's wrong?" he scoffs, "Could it be that my best friend is dying? That I can't even talk to Maureen for ten seconds without reverting to scream? Would is be that I have no job and no life? No, that's not possible, because good old Marky doesn't *have* feelings."

He turns and starts to walk away, then turns back.

"Maybe. . ." he says softly, "Maybe I'm just jealous."

"Jealous?" I ask, confused, "Of what?"

Mark comes back over and sits down beside me.

"Of-Roger. He doesn't realize how lucky he is. . .to have you." He glances awkwardly down at the floor for a moment, then meets my faze with those bright blue eyes. "You know it kills me to see him treat you the way he does."

"Mark. . ." I'm at a complete loss for words.

He shrugs helplessly and smiles sadly at me.

I pull him into a tight hug and gently kiss his forehead. He shudders slightly in my arms, then tightens his grasp around me. I close my eyes and give in to sleep, wishing I could freeze time and stay in this moment forever.

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