I’d been waiting five hours; she’d been here three. She’d leave for the bathroom every half hour, then she’d text Julian three puke emojis upon her return. He never responded. The thread was just a wall of queasy green blobs. She was fourteen, maybe—old enough to know she shouldn’t rely on boys for much of anything. 

“Can you watch my stuff again?” she asked. I nodded, and she ran for it.

There were so many places I’d rather be on a Saturday night, but my eyeballs felt like they were going to pop out of my sockets. I’d tried purchasing insulin over the counter, but it was over $3,600 for a month’s supply. I’d found a burgeoning black market for insulin on Craigslist using the search term “lifewater.” I’d borrowed Jenny’s Jetta to drive 30 miles to San Ramon to buy lifewater from some lady in a 7-Eleven parking lot. I’d appreciated that she was willing to commit a felony to aid in my survival, but she charged me five hundred for a box, which seemed rather steep. 

I’d run out maybe a month ago. Two, max. Hard to say—without a work schedule, time had lost its meaning. I’d settled for dosing myself with clear alcohols, which had brought my sugar down a bit on my way to passing out.

The girl returned and plopped next to me.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“No.” She shifted her body away. I could still see her screen. No answer from Julian, so she started playing a game slapping pastel outfits on the thin body of a white girl avatar.

“Gabriela?” a tired-looking nurse called, and the girl grabbed her bag and headed for the doorway. I’m not sure what magic words she’d said during her intake that allowed her to cut me in line. I should have been more dramatic, mentioned a white light and the voice of Maya Angelou. 

I felt fine, mostly. Aside from the throbbing eyeballs. I’d also wake up with blurred vision, and generally, I felt my blood rebelling beneath my skin. On the flip-side, I’d lost twenty pounds and could fit into the designer jeans at the back of my closet. My whole body was eating itself alive. It wanted out, and I couldn’t blame it. 

Another hour passed. I kept checking Grindr, in case there was a doctor on site who’d trade insulin for a romp. At least a nurse. After my ex ghosted, it all felt transactional. I’d settled on a profile name that was just my height and an up arrow, before throwing a shamrock in there to temper expectations. 

The same nurse called my name and led me to a plastic chair with a thin curtain separating me from another patient a few feet away. 

A different nurse, this one in yellow-duckied scrubs, brusquely demanded I confirm my name and date of birth and took my sugar with the bedside manner of a piranha. I sopped up the excess blood with a tissue. 

“Four fifty-four,” she said. “That’s very high. You’re diabetic?”

“I should hope so,” I said. 

She scrunched her nose. “So, you’ve run out of insulin? Why can’t you get more at the pharmacy?”

“I lost my job and insurance.”

“Did you call MassHealth?”

“Yes, and after ninety minutes on hold they said I wasn’t eligible until I’ve been off insurance for three months. I’m not sure what they expect me to do in the meantime.”

“I can supervise your dosage until you’re under one eighty,” she said. 

“And then what am I supposed to do?”

“Go to a pharmacy,” she said.

“I don’t have the money.”

She glanced at my pointy leather shoes. “It’s hard out here for everybody. But this is not a pharmacy. You’re not supposed to use us like one.”

I watched as she marched down the hall—the smell of bleach and infection, the woman mumbling about cheese, the sharp screams of a man further down every few minutes. I wondered if all their problems were self-induced, if they too had earned their evening in this hellscape. 

She returned with a box of NovoLog, pulled up my shirt, and jabbed me with ten units.

“I would correct with at least twenty since I’m this high,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “I’ll check your sugar in an hour, and we’ll see where you’re at.” She put the cap on the pen and moved to the next station over.

“Gabriela, when did this vomiting start?” she asked. 

“Couple weeks ago.”

Five gorgeous pens. 

I could see the nurse’s yellow clogs at the edge of the curtain. “Do you know you’re pregnant, sweetie?”

Gabriela whimpered. “Not again.”

I grabbed the box and strolled toward the exit, the Ocean’s Eleven theme playing in my head.