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“Look, Oliver, I'm really sorry—”

“No,” he interrupted with a smile, holding up his hands. “It's perfectly understandable. You have roots.” He pressed his lips together. He knew that this game was drawing to a close; he had to make a decisive move. Fortunately, he always came prepared for the worst. He always had a dozen emergency scenarios worked out in his mind before he walked into any new situation. That way he was never surprised. Not even now. “Unfortunately, Gaia, I must go to Germany—with or without you.”

Her face fell. “But why?”

He made a show of sighing deeply, as if he wanted
nothing more than for Gaia to roam the streets of New York with her pathetic little boyfriend. “My dear, I have been very selfish. The fact is that I haven't been honest with you.” He paused, letting the anticipation build. “But I want to tell you the truth. All of it.”

And when he was done, Loki had no doubt that Gaia would be packing her bags, just as he had planned.

Screwed-up Friendship

SAM TUCKED THE STACK OF MAGAZINES
he had under his jacket to protect them from the heavy, wet snow that had begun to fall. Maybe he was being overly optimistic to think that Mike would have the energy to read
Sports Illustrated.
But the practicality of gifts never mattered. People only cared about the act itself—the effort of giving.

Walking the last block to St. Vincent's, Sam prayed that this would be his last visit to the hospital. From here on out, life would be about studying, labs, exams—and of course, snuggling with Gaia under the new down comforter he planned to buy with the money his parents had given him for Christmas.

I won't stay for long,
Sam decided as he pushed open the door to the lobby. There was no reason. Mike needed rest.
Besides, Sam was in the clear
—
at least as far as any sort of legal responsibility for the overdose went.
No one had called him in for questioning. Mike was right. The visit from the detective had been one of those routine paperwork things.

As he strolled into the elevator, he pulled the magazines out from under his jacket and pasted a bright smile on his face.
Life could be extremely twisted sometimes.
This whole thing had brought Mike and him closer together. And he was glad about that. Mike probably considered Sam to be his best friend. It was funny. Before now they had been suite mates, buddies—but nothing more. The relationship was pretty superficial. Yet thanks to a psychopath, a drug overdose, and a guilty conscience, Sam's existence was inextricably bound with Mike's. Were all friendships as screwed up?

The elevator door opened, and Sam strode toward Mike's room. The fourth floor was relatively empty. Good. The last time he had been here, Sam had seen a motorcycle accident victim being wheeled on a gurney. The guy had been moaning in pain and shouting about the foot that had been amputated in surgery. Maybe Sam didn't want to be a doctor after all.

“Sam?”

He turned around. “Michelle, hi.” The pretty nurse was standing outside Mike's room, almost as if she were guarding it. “What's up?”

Her eyes were dark. “You can't go in there, Sam.”

“Why? Are they doing more tests?” He tried to look through the window, but Michelle's body was in the way.

“I'm sorry, Sam.” She sighed. “Mike died twenty minutes ago.”

The words didn't register. They floated straight past him. The sterile white hospital floor turned to liquid. He pressed his hand against the wall for support.

“No, he was getting better. I just saw him—”

“The doctors did everything they could to bring him back, but the damage was too severe. He's gone.” She stepped away from the door, giving Sam a view of Mike's body. He was lying on the hospital bed.
His face was pale, and everything about him was absolutely still.
The room wasn't empty, though. His parents leaned over him, silently weeping. Sam's stomach twisted.

“Would you like to speak to Mike's parents, Sam?” Michelle asked. Her voice seemed to be coming from another universe, another dimension. He was having trouble breathing. His heart seemed to stutter, then stop, then stutter again. “I'm sure that talking to one
of their son's best friends would offer at least a small measure of comfort—”

“I need to go.”

Sam sprinted toward the public bathroom. He reached the toilet just in time. Sobbing, he threw up everything in his stomach until there was nothing left but acrid, bitter bile. He could never look Mr. and Mrs. Suarez in the eyes, much less actually talk to them. He had killed their son, as plainly as if he had stuck the needle in Mike's arm himself.

Blood

GAIA WISHED SHE HAD ACCEPTED

Uncle Oliver's offer of a glass of red wine. She remembered how it had relaxed her. Not that she was particularly tense. Her mind was utterly blank—the same way it would have been had she been dropped into the middle of a demilitarized zone. Whenever her life took on some kind of cohesion, another trapdoor opened.

“I'm listening,” she said. She wrapped her hand around her glass of ice water and focused on the condensation on the glass rather than Uncle Oliver's intense gaze.

“Five years ago I fought a battle with cancer,”
Oliver began softly. “I underwent surgery and chemotherapy. The disease went into remission. That's the good news.”

Gaia just stared at him. Her pulse began to race.
Cancer.
It figured. Her uncle was dying.
Everywhere she went, death stalked her.
She was a curse. That was all there was to it. But . . . he looked so
healthy.

He cleared his throat. “The bad news is that my doctors inform me that the cancer is back. It's in my pancreas this time, and the prognosis is quite bad.”

As he was telling her this, she almost felt as though she could join in, word for word. Why would she have any chance at happiness? It didn't fit in with the scheme of the universe.
Somewhere in the laws of time and space, there was a clause stating that Gaia Moore could never be truly content.
It was one of those joke laws, like the ones in old town charters—the kind that stated it was illegal to gamble with ducks or that smoking a pipe was punishable by catapulting. Only the cosmic joke was on Gaia. Nobody else.

“They say I won't begin to feel real effects from the illness for several more weeks,” he continued. He shook his head. “That's why I've been out of commission these past few days. I've been seeing doctors. They're all very pessimistic. I've had several
opinions, and the consensus is always the same. They say that treatment would only prolong my life for a few weeks. But undergoing those measures will make me so sick that I won't be able to enjoy the days of health I do have left.”

Gaia swallowed the huge, hard lump that had formed in her throat. She was not going to cry. That wasn't what her uncle needed.
What he needed was
another
opinion.
Maybe his doctors had gone to medical school in Granada or Belize or some other place that handed out medical licenses to anyone who could fork over the cash.

“I'm going to help you fight this thing,” she heard herself saying, as if she were quoting a Lifetime drama. “We'll do it together.” She blinked back that one stupid tear that kept threatening to slip down her cheek. “You can
not
give up hope.”

He smiled. “Well . . . that's what I wanted to tell you. There's a place in Germany. It's a very small, very prestigious clinic where scientists are constantly experimenting with new forms of treatment for illnesses like mine. I'm going to go there and see what they can do for me.”

Gaia fought back her excitement. So that explained why he would be going to Germany whether or not she came along. “And they'll be able to cure you there?” she blurted out.

Uncle Oliver shrugged. “I don't know.”

Experimental treatment. Gaia knew something
about medicine. She knew that it could take years for some of these advances to be perfected. Her uncle was going to be a guinea pig.

“When were you going to tell me about all of this?” she asked.

“Soon. I just didn't know the words to use.” He paused. “But I don't want this to change your mind about staying in New York, Gaia. I'm sure you'd rather be here with George and your friends than hanging around a sick old man while he tries to get better.”

Gaia shook her head vehemently. She would not let him go the way of every other family member she'd had. He was
blood.

“I'm coming with you,” she promised. “I'll talk to George. I'm sure he'll understand the situation.”

Her uncle frowned slightly. “No. This is a private matter. And even if your foster father agrees to let you go, we'll be bogged down in red tape with social services for so long that I'll be terribly sick by the time we can leave the country.”

He was right.
She had been a victim of the system for long enough to know that it took ages for the wheels to turn.
If she did this, it was going to have to be on her own terms, without George's knowing until it was too late to stop her.

“Well, don't worry, Uncle Oliver,” she assured him. “I'll work this out. You aren't going to do this alone. No way.”

 

All the Wrong Things

THE CHAMPAGNE WAS PREMATURE,
but Ed appreciated the gesture.
Especially from his parents, who often gave new meaning to the term “socially retarded.”
But tonight they were doing all right. At the very least, they were doing a hell of a lot better than they did at Victoria's engagement party. He had actually been worried that their fake smiles would cause permanent facial damage.

But that was the past. This was the present. And more important, neither his sister nor her lame-ass fiancé was in New York at the moment, so they weren't around to screw up the occasion. Ed lifted his glass at his parents. “Here's to hoping.”

“This operation is going to be a success, sweetie,” his mom replied, raising her own flute. “I feel it in my bones.”

Ed rolled his eyes. Okay. Obviously they hadn't come
that
far. “Mom . . .”

“Now, come on, hon,” Ed's dad said, clearing his throat. “Let's not set Ed up for a big disappointment.”

Ah, Mom and Dad.
Still with the knack for saying all the wrong things.
What would Ed do without them? True, they provided hours of cost-free entertainment . . . but at what price? They present you with champagne, then bicker
about whether or not the occasion is worthy of said champagne.

“Hey, the last time I came out of major surgery, I couldn't walk,” Ed joked, hoping to end the conversation. “As long as I can still use my arms when I wake up, I'll be happy.”

“That's the spirit,” Mr. Fargo declared. “We'll just wait and see what happens. We'll take it one step at a time.”

Right.
Ed was quiet for a moment, waiting to see if his father felt compelled to spout any more clichés. When none were forthcoming, he decided to make his announcement.

“You know, if you don't mind, I'd like to keep the fact that I'm having the operation between us.”

His mother raised her eyebrows. “What about Victoria?”

He shook his head. “I want to do this on my own, Mom. If there's a bunch of hype surrounding this thing, I'll feel like crap if it doesn't work. We'll tell Victoria when she gets back.”

“I'm sure you'll want the support of your friends, Ed,” Mr. Fargo added, chiming in with another adage. “If you don't—”

“This is the way I want it, Dad,” Ed interrupted firmly.

His parents exchanged a quick glance.

“Um . . . of course,” Mr. Fargo murmured. He took
a slug of champagne. “We'll honor your wishes. And you'll have your mom and me there every step of the way.”

And we'll win one for the Gipper!
Ed added silently. He almost felt bad for his father.
The poor guy always resorted to the most insipid forms of bullshit when dealing with his kids.
But hey, Ed should at least try to enjoy the moment. Things were relatively relaxed. It was a nice change. Since his conversation with Dr. Feldman, everything had been moving
way
too fast. Ed had figured that bureaucracy would hold up the operation for weeks, if not months. But Dr. Feldman was determined to go ahead as soon as possible. It was kind of fishy, in fact. Ed couldn't help but wonder if the guy was rushing just so he could become an overnight star in the medical community.

But whatever. That was fine by Ed. To use a cliché worthy of his dad, “the wheels were in motion.” Ed would go into the hospital for a series of tests, pokings, and proddings tomorrow. Then he and his parents would fill out a stack of paperwork and sign a hundred different waivers.

Once all of that was done, Ed was good to go.

He grinned up at his parents as they silently sipped their champagne. It tasted syrupy sweet, like soda gone bad. People actually enjoyed this crap? But he wouldn't complain. He allowed his mind to wander, fantasizing
about all the “what-ifs.” What would his life be like if he could stand up and walk over to his stereo to put in a CD? Or hang a new poster on his wall? Better yet, what would it be like if he could get out of this chair, cross the room, and take Heather into his arms?
He imagined picking her up and throwing her onto the bed.
Ed would kneel over her, kissing her face, her neck. . . . He could almost feel her long blond hair tickling his cheeks as they kissed—