Page 265 of Disarm
“That’s not a hypothetical we can solve today,” he says. “What we can do is adjust the plan so you’re not doing this alone.”
I snort. “The plan that already apparently sucked?”
“Not sucked,” he says. “Incomplete. It was built on data from the first few years after his attempt. You two are different now. Your relationship is different. His triggers are different. We need a 2.0 version.”
Sitting with that thought for a minute. “So what,” I say. “More bullet points on the fridge?”
“Some of that,” he says. “But I also want a plan for you. Not just for him.”
I give him a look. “I’m fine.”
He actually laughs at that, a short, disbelieving sound. “Miguel, you’re shaking,” he says calmly.
I look down.
He’s right. My hands are vibrating like I stuck my fingers in a live socket.
“Cool,” I say. “So I’m fine but on vibrate.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You called me from the ER and told me you felt… what was the phrase?”
“Like someone scooped my organs out and left a Miguel-shaped balloon,” I mutter.
“Right,” he says. “That guy needs a plan too.”
I sigh, long and shaky. “Okay,” I say. “Fine. Hit me with the crisis manual, doc.”
He leans over to the side table and pulls out a yellow legal pad. The sight of it makes something in me unclench a fraction.
Lists.
I can do lists.
“Let’s start with your job in a crisis,” he says. “What are the things you did this time that you know were helpful?”
“Called 911,” I say. “Checked his breathing. Got the pill bottle. Stayed with him.”
He writes it down. “Good. Anything else?”
“Opened the door for the paramedics,” I say, picturing the red and blue flash on the walls. “Gave them as much info as I had. Rode in the ambulance. Answered the doctors’ questions.”
He nods, jotting. “Those are all supports. Now, what did you do that hurt you?”
I think of sleeping in the chair with my spine in knots. Of refusing to eat until Mom shoved a fucking torta into my hand and glared. Of staring at the monitors like if I looked away for one second, his heart would flatline out of spite.
“Didn’t sleep,” I say. “Didn’t eat. Didn’t leave the room unless someone physically moved me.”
Luis adds another column. “So. We want to keep the first list and not repeat the second.”
“Feels like if I’m not doing the second, I’m not doing enough,” I admit.
“That belief,” he says, tapping his pen on the pad, “is going in its own column: lies your burnout tells you.”
I roll my eyes. “Cute.”
“Accurate,” he counters. “Okay. Crisis Miguel, version 2.0. Step one: you notice red flags. Locked door. Silence. Scary texts. Volume numbers that don’t match behavior. What do you do first?”
“Check on him,” I say. “In person if I can.”
