Bird Read Free Page A

gadgets at Max’s Appliances three towns over, the only store like that for more than sixty miles.
    â€œGrandpa!” I cried, shaking his body. He was cold. Unresponsive.
    I felt my eyes grow wide. “No,” I whispered.
    I dashed through the house, looking for the case that held his diabetes emergency kit, which contained a vial of glucose that could save his life. I crashed into the bathroom and yanked open the medicine cabinet. It wasn’t there. I ran into Grandpa’s bedroom, even though I wasn’t supposed to go inside, and rummaged through his nightstand, then his dresser drawers, then his closet. I was nearly ripping apart with fear: Even if I called Dad or Mom, it would take a half hour for them to drive home. An ambulance, too.
    I spun around in a circle, my eyes searching furiously for the kit. Then I saw it: a small, clear box with a syringe and a vial inside. It was only the size of a pencil box, much smaller than what I had been looking for. In my panic, I had yanked it out of his nightstand and hadn’t seen it fall to the ground.
    I snatched the kit and ran back to the living room. I had seen Dad give Grandpa this shot only once, a long time ago, when he didn’t think I was watching. Dad had injected the glucose in Grandpa’s arm, deep into the muscle. I clenched my teeth, pulled the syringe out of the box, stuck it into the vial, and drew up the clear liquid. Then I plunged the needle into Grandpa’s arm and injected the glucose into his body. Wild applause filled the room. I jumped and turned around. A participant on the game show had just tripled her money and won a trip to Bermuda. She was screaming and crying and waving her hands in the air.
    I ran to the kitchen, picked up the phone, and dialed 911.
    By the time the ambulance got to our house, Grandpa was already starting to move. I showed Mr. Williamson and Mr. Brendle, the town’s two part-time paramedics, into the living room. They lifted Grandpa onto a wheeled bed and put him in the ambulance; his skin was a shock of color against the perfectly white sheet. I let my eyes linger on him, which felt weird since I never really let myself look at him. His body was lean but muscular, his chin firm, his cheekbones pointy and no-nonsense, and his short, wiry hair just lightly tipped with gray. I was amazed at how strong he looked, even in an ambulance. Maybe he thought he was strong enough to stop worrying about his blood sugar level, even though he should have known that if he let it drop that low it could kill him.
    â€œJewel?” Mr. Williamson was looking at me, tugging on the dark blue cuffs of his shirt.
    I jumped. “Yes?”
    â€œI said, how long was he unconscious?”
    â€œI don’t know. I wasn’t home.”
    Mr. Williamson made a puzzled face. “You weren’t?”
    â€œNo. I was at the cliff.” The words came out just like that, like a tsunami was crashing out of my mouth.
    Mr. Williamson straightened, and his face went hard. “The cliff?”
    We both knew what cliff I was talking about.
    I sealed up my lips, not revealing another secret. A tight silence surrounded us, and for what seemed a small eternity, I felt the weight of his questions and accusations and judgment.
    I squirmed. “Is Grandpa going to be okay?”
    Mr. Williamson looked at me and nodded, and he started talking about insulin and a lot of medical things I didn’t understand. He talked more than he needed to, and the angle of the morning sun slowly blended away the stress lines on his face, his lines of apprehension at being at our house. He looked comfortable, almost.
    But I knew better.
    â€œJewel,” he said, pushing up his glasses on his nose, “are you going to come with us to the hospital? We’ll need someone to translate . . .” He trailed off and his huge feet fidgeted on our gravel driveway. The entire town knew that Grandpa couldn’t speak, or chose not