Free Nothing Bad Is Going to Happen by Kathleen Hale Page A

eyelids and look again.
    It says, Erica Sussman .
    I decide not to dwell on the mistake for too long. The point is that it’s not Davey.
    Eleanor Harbeck .
    Nope.
    Christopher Hernandez .
    Nope.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” somebody asks.
    I spin around and gulp. A man in a white coat is glaring at me. “Libby?” I yell.
    She careens around the corner, snow boots squeaking on the floor, boobs bouncing, and arrives at my side breathless.
    â€œHello,” she tells the doctor, leaning casually against a wall-mounted dispenser of hand sanitizer.
    â€œI like your coat,” I hear her say as I escape to check more charts.
    Stephanie Georgopolis .
    Nope.
    David Fried .
    Bingo!
    There’s a note on the front of his chart: Attempted suicide using aspirin. State: comatose. I tear off that part and shove it in my pocket before opening the door.
    â€œDavey?” I call quietly. This morning I read online that people in comas can probably hear you.
    I pull back the curtain and there he is. Just a few days ago I was lying stretched out on our couch with my leg on a pillow, and the front door slammed and there was Davey, tugging off his coat in the entryway. Dom was in the kitchen cooking sausages. He preferred Davey to come to our place, rather than the other way around.
    â€œHey,” I said.
    His eyes trailed from my red lipstick to my red nail polish. Snowflakes were caught in his hair. “Does it hurt today?” he asked.
    He meant my leg and in response I lied, shaking my head. The John Williams Home Alone soundtrack was playing in the other room—Dom’s and my favorite mash-up of Christmas carols.
    â€œThis one’s my favorite,” Davey said, lowering himself onto the couch. I lifted my legs and he slid under them, warming his icy hands on my toes.
    â€œWho’s your favorite?” I said. “I’m your favorite?”
    â€œWell yeah.” He laughed. “But also this song.”
    â€œâ€˜O Holy Night’? You haven’t turned all Christian on me, have you?”
    â€œNo, it’s just . . . You know that part where they sing, ‘Fall on your knees, O hear the angel voices’?”
    â€œSure,” I said. “They sing it during that part in Home Alone where the so-called bad guy becomes, like, a human being. It’s objectively the most powerful moment in the song.”
    â€œI love it.” He leaned back. “I dunno, it just always reminds me that sometimes you have to listen to the crazy stuff inside your head.”
    â€œYou mean like . . . listen to your gut.”
    â€œYeah, sure, if that’s what you wanna call it.”
    Just then Miss Rosa came barreling down the stairs in one of her crazy Christmas sweaters and he slid away from me—not that she’d care, really. Whenever Dom caught Davey and me together, he’d scream, “Stop it with the sugar!” But if Miss Rosa saw us, she’d just gurgle like a pigeon, and get all wide-eyed, shouting, “YES! VERY GOOD! I LIKE!” which I guess made Davey uncomfortable for other reasons.
    â€œSoup is on!” she yelled. I could smell the venison sausages smoking in the kitchen. “O Holy Night” was still blaring in the other room, and I found myself focusing on the lyrics, waiting for the part he’d mentioned.
    â€œA thrill of hope, a weary world rejoices, for yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.”
    â€œI get excited every time I see you,” I told him.
    â€œSame,” he said.
    That was two days ago. Now he’s lying here, slack-jawed, with all these tubes sticking out of him, hooked up to so many machines. His face is pale and waxy but his hair looks the same, soft and dark and thick—and there’s about a day’s worth of stubble on his face, which I guess means everything’s still working.
    â€œPsst, Kippy!”
    The curtain swings open behind me. “We’ve gotta go,” Libby says.