Free inDIVISIBLE by Ryan Hunter

feeling sweaty and stiff. I pulled the bandage off and cringed at the red circling the wound, the white and yellow puss filling the gap I’d torn free. I gagged and T took my hand, wrapped the wound again carefully. “What’s his name?”
    “ Cray Carmichal,” I mumbled, facing away from the wound. “But I don’t know where he lives … his contact code … anything.”
    T tucked the end of the rag in place and p atted the back of my hand. “We can find out.”
    A droplet of sweat trickled from my hairline, tickling my cheek. I swiped it away, surprised at the heat this early in the day. “I’m tired.”
                  He helped me to my feet. “I know, but we can’t rest yet. We’ve got to find Cray, see if his father left any medical supplies behind, because even if this girl has that epinephrine, you’re going to need an antibiotic you’re not allergic to.”

 
     
     
     
     
    CHAPTER 10
     
     
     
    T’s right hand had healed enough for a simple bandage, making him much less conspicuous than me with my navy blue dishtowel. We’d torn it in strips but it still stood out like a banner waving traitor. That banner, along with my wheezing, propelled us to commit our first official crime together, breaking into a home on Fifth Circle.
    I didn’t know the people who lived there, but I’d seen their daughter use an allergy injection at school one day so I had a pretty good idea we may find something inside to counter the penicillin. I tried to take a deep breath but the air only scraped through my throat, rattling on its way in and back out. My arms were now streaked with scratch marks where I’d tried to relieve the relentless itching and I knew if we didn’t hurry, I’d lose any ability to suck in air. We walked up to the entry  like we lived there, neither of us speaking. Once inside, T tried the handle and we cringed when nothing happened. Of course it would be locked. Most doors did that automatically, only opening with the residents’ swipe.
    He tried again but the handle remained firm.
    “Stand over there,” he instructed.
    I moved across the entry way and braced myself against the wall, my lungs burning now and my throat throbbing.
    T took a step back, raised one leg and kicked beside the door handle. The door cracked but didn’t open. He kicked a second time and a third, splintering the door and pushing it open on drooping hinges. “We only have a few minutes,” he whispered and rushed down the stairs.
    The noise of the exploding door would have been heard over the monitoring system and the idea made my head spin again. I grasped the railing and rushed down the spiral staircase apologizing to the girl I’d seen at school over and over again in my mind.
    Nearly at the bottom of the steps, I stumbled, my feet pelting the concrete floor that looked so much like mine, like all of them in Section Seven. T steadied me, raised one eyebrow as if to ask if I was okay. I nodded and he released me before rushing to the kitchen cabinets.
    He searched the cabinets, gathering food as he rummaged for medicine. He motioned toward the bathroom and I skirted quickly through the garden to the bathroom that looked nothing like the one I’d left behind. Dirty towels were piled on the floor, mildew grew up around the shower walls and the smell of filthy bodies pelted my nose.
    My throat tightened and my vision blurred. I grasped for the countertop to steady me but my hands slipped away in time for my body to crash to the filthy floor. It didn’t hurt like I thought it would—everything just went black and gratefully, the pain ceased.
     
    The air felt cool in my throat, filling my lungs to capacity and I sucked in enough that I thought they’d burst. I exhaled and the tingle of breath worked its way along my arms and legs, a soothing yet nervous sensation and my eyes shot open. T crouched over me, an injector in one hand.
    “Thank God,” he whispered. He dropped the injector to the floor and