The Arithmetic of Survival

Three weeks had passed since the night Dylan's lungs staged their mutiny, and now his existence had settled into a numb calculus: *Breathe in for four seconds. Hold for seven. Exhale for eight.* The numbers kept him anchored, a rhythmic liturgy to ward off the void. But even equations couldn't silence the darker sum in his head—the one that whispered how easy it would be to stop breathing altogether.

He walked to school as he always did: slowly, methodically, his backpack slung over one shoulder like a sack of stones. The gravel road stretched ahead, flanked by fields choked with Novagen's construction dust. Dawn painted the sky in bruised purples, and the half-built facility loomed in the distance, its skeletal frame lit by industrial floodlights. Dylan kept his eyes on his boots, counting cracks in the pavement. *One. Two. Three.* Each step a defiance.

A car engine growled behind him a sound too raw for Claireborne's usual rusted sedans. Dylan didn't turn. He knew that engine. A Jeep Wrangler, fire-engine red, its bumper plastered with peeling band stickers and a decal of Einstein sticking out his tongue. It skidded to a halt beside him, kicking up a haze of dirt.

"Slow Boy!" Marcus's voice cut through the morning quiet, equal parts mockery and melody. His head jutted out the driver's window, tousled blond hair catching the light, wire-rimmed glasses sliding down his nose. "You gonna make it to homeroom before retirement?"

Dylan smirked, though it cost him. Even smiling tugged at the scar tissue in his chest. "Wouldn't want to deny you the pleasure of my company."

Marcus reversed the Jeep with a jerk, flinging the passenger door open. "Get in before I die of old age too."

The climb into the Jeep was a humiliating orchestra of labored breaths and trembling limbs. Dylan collapsed into the seat, his lungs hissing like punctured tires. Marcus didn't stare, didn't ask—just cranked the radio, flooding the cab with the thrash of a garage-band cover of *Smells Like Teen Spirit*. He drummed the steering wheel, off-beat and unapologetic, as they lurched forward.

Dylan studied him. Marcus was Claireborne's paradox: a star quarterback who'd rather code Python than throw spirals, a guy who quoted Nietzsche but still blushed when Lydia Cho from chem class glanced his way. His looks were all sun-kissed, All-American charm—crooked grin, jawline sharp enough to cut glass—but his eyes betrayed him. They were the pale blue of overwashed denim, too soft for the persona he wore like a hand-me-down flannel.

"You're doing that thing again," Marcus said, nodding at Dylan's hands.

"What thing?"

"The finger-tapping. You're counting. Always counting."

Dylan curled his fingers into fists. *Four. Seven. Eight.* "Keeps me honest."

"Honest? Dude, you're like a human metronome." Marcus downshifted as they hit Main Street, passing the diner where the red-haired protestor—*Jessa*, he'd learned her name—worked the grill. "You staying over tonight? Dad's doing his famous chili."

The invitation lodged in Dylan's throat. Sleepovers at the Callahan house were relics of a simpler time, back when his lungs weren't prison wards and his biggest fear was trig exams. Marcus's father, a bear-sized man with a courtroom voice and a librarian's heart, had welcomed Dylan like a second son. Their home smelled of leather-bound books and cedar, a stark contrast to Aunt Marla's nicotine-and-regret farmhouse.

"Can't," Dylan lied. "Marla needs me."

"Marla needs a hobby that isn't yelling at zoning boards." Marcus side-eyed him. "C'mon. I'll even let you cheat at Mario Kart."

The Jeep swerved around a pothole, and Dylan gripped the door handle. His reflection in the side mirror startled him—pale, gaunt, a spectre in a hoodie. *Ghost*, he thought. That's what he was. A ghost haunting Marcus's life, Aunt Marla's couch, his own body.

---

School was its own purgatory. Claireborne High had all the charm of a concrete bunker, its halls buzzing with gossip about Novagen's hiring fair and the protestors camped outside the construction site. Dylan navigated the chaos like a sleepwalker, his inhaler a talisman in his pocket. By third period, the Prednisone had cranked his nerves to a fever pitch. He scribbled equations in the margins of his notebook, numbers spiraling into nonsense.

*What's the half-life of a person?* he wondered. *If I vanish, how long until I'm just a footnote in Marla's rants, a cautionary tale in Marcus's code?*

Lunch found him slumped on the bleachers, picking at a granola bar. Marcus plopped down beside him, lunch tray balanced on his knees. "Saw Jessa at the site yesterday. She says Novagen's dumping sludge in the creek. Got a sample and everything."

"And?" Dylan rasped.

"And nothing. County says it's 'within acceptable limits.'" Marcus air-quoted, nearly spilling his chocolate milk. "Dad's trying to get the EPA down here, but… politics."

Dylan's chest tightened. He'd seen the creek lately—foam gathering at the edges, fish floating belly-up. He thought of the Albuterol in his backpack, the way it barely touched the burn these days. *Acceptable limits.* Was that what he was now? A body holding steady at *just* functional enough to not die in class?

Marcus lowered his voice. "You okay?"

"Always."

"Bull. You've got that look."

"What look?"

"Like you're trying to solve a problem with no answer."

Dylan crumpled the granola bar wrapper. *The problem is me*, he wanted to say. *The problem is that I'm a drain on everyone, a walking corpse waiting for a grave.* But he shrugged. "Just tired."

---

The Jeep ride home was quieter. Marcus hummed along to the radio, but his usual chatter had dimmed. As they passed the Novagen site, Dylan spotted Jessa chaining herself to the gate, her red hair a flare against the gray.

"She's gonna get arrested," Dylan muttered.

"Probably." Marcus grinned. "Then she'll run for mayor. Girl's got hustle."

"You like her."

"I like *not* getting tetanus from contaminated water." Marcus paused. "But yeah. She's… intense."

Dylan snorted. "Your type."

"Shut up."

They lapsed into silence. Dylan watched the fields blur past, the world moving at a speed he'd never match. Marcus's friendship had always been thiseasy, relentless, a lifeline he didn't deserve. When they pulled into Marla's driveway, Dylan hesitated, his hand on the door.

"Thanks. For the ride."

Marcus drummed his fingers on the wheel. "You know, you don't gotta thank me. Not for this."

Dylan knew what he meant. *Not for being alive. Not for taking up space.* But gratitude was a reflex, the only currency he had left.

Inside, the farmhouse was dark. Marla had left a note on the fridge: *"Gone to Knoxville. Back late. Eat something that ain't canned."* Dylan stared at the humming refrigerator, its light pooling on the floor like a spotlight.

He didn't eat. Instead, he climbed to his room and lay on the bed, counting the water stains on the ceiling. *Four. Seven. Eight.* Outside, the Novagen cranes dipped and swayed, their shadows clawing at his window.

When his phone buzzed a meme from Marcus, captioned *"When u realize Monday's tomorrow"* Dylan didn't laugh. He stared at the screen until it dimmed, wondering if ghosts could cry.