The Missing Insulin

The green around camp blurred at the edges. Metal coated my tongue, thirst scraped my throat, and my heart beat too fast. My blood sugar was climbing. I had felt these symptoms before, but they had never come this hard or this quickly. I had less time than I expected. I dug through my pack for the insulated pouch. Empty. I checked every pocket again, pushing aside food packets and damp clothes, then looked across our cramped camp. Lily sat beside the fire under a silver thermal blanket, shoulders shaking whenever a camera turned her way. Noah’s show logo covered one corner. The blanket had been assigned to me with the rest of my survival gear that morning. An hour ago, Noah had draped it over her and laughed for the camera. “Aria’s tough. Lily needs it more.” My insulated pouch lay against Lily’s cheek. She had taken the medicine out and was using the pouch as a cold compress. “My insulin.” My throat scraped around the words as I crossed the camp. “Lily, that’s my pouch. Give me my medicine.” She blinked up at me. “This? I felt faint, and it was so nice and cool.” She held it out, keeping it just beyond my fingers. “I didn't know it mattered.” Noah moved between us before I could take it. One hand settled on Lily’s shoulder. His back blocked me from the pouch. “Aria, what’s wrong with you?” He used the same controlled voice that sold interviews and endorsements. This time it was meant to shut me up. His eyes moved over my cracked lips and my short, uneven breaths. After three years, he knew these signs. He used to keep orange juice in his car and glucose tablets in every jacket, and he would reach for them as soon as my hands started shaking. That version of Noah was standing close enough to touch me and doing nothing. For a second, he looked ready to move. Lily made a small sound and leaned against him. Noah glanced at the nearest camera instead. “Enough, Aria. You’re making a scene. We’re live.” The camera operator pushed in closer. Noah had his shot: the patient star protecting a fragile socialite from his unstable fiancée. My life had become useful footage. My knees hit the damp ground, and cold water soaked through my trousers. No one in the crew came over. The medic assigned to ordinary production injuries stayed behind the sound equipment. Everyone watched Noah, waiting for him to call cut. He looked into the nearest lens and never did. Lily shifted and gave a little gasp. The pouch tipped off her lap. A single blue-and-white insulin pen rolled out and landed in the mud a few feet from me. Half the pen sank into the mud. The camp tilted. I could barely fill my lungs, but the pen was still intact. I put one hand in front of the other. I crawled. Mud closed around my hands and knees and pulled at me each time I moved. A lens whirred nearby, tightening on my face. Someone adjusted focus when I slipped. The red recording light stayed on while I dragged myself across the ground, close enough to hear the camera operator breathing. I kept my eyes on the strip of blue-and-white plastic ahead of me. My fingers touched the muddy casing and slipped. I reached again. One more inch. I looked up at Lily. She was smiling. She had stopped shivering, and she made no effort to hide it from me. She had put the pen there on purpose.