The following day it was Emmett’s turn to open. The peacefulness of the nearly empty store almost made
up for the early start—that and a chance run-in with Myra, a regular with whom he’d become friendly.
He found her in a grocery aisle straining for the top shelf, knees rattling as she gripped her mobility
scooter for support. “Let me get that,” Emmett said, hurrying over. “You sit.”
A nod. She lowered herself back onto the seat with a groan of effort. “How many bottles today?” “Two
please, young man. Nice young man.” She could never seem to remember his name, no matter how often
they met like this. “I’m making fish sticks.”
A surprisingly normal combo, he thought. Known among the staff as Cocktail Sauce Lady for her
obsession with the condiment, Myra had regaled Emmett on multiple occasions with its many
applications—not just on seafood but fries, chicken wings, pork chops, salads, sandwiches, even swigged
straight from the bottle. Judging by her frequent visits, she seemed to get through at least four bottles a
week. Target wasn’t the cheapest, but her apartment was just across the street.
“Sounds delicious,” Emmett said. He loaded her up and sent her on her way. As usual, things picked up
around midmorning, ke eping him off his phone until he clocked out for lunch. He’d missed a call from
Cronus Health, but made out from the badly transcribed voicemail that his blood results were in.
This was it, the big yes or no. Avoiding the crowded breakroom, he st epped outside where he wouldn’t
be overheard. After an overcast morning, it was a perfect day. Palm fronds swished
overhead, leafy green against clear azure blue. The call rang three times before a voice answered. “Hi, I
missed a call from Dr. Halleck?” “I believe he’s with a patient. I can leave a note for him to call you—”
“Can you check please? Sorry, it’s kind of urgent.” Why was he apologizing? His obesity was urgent
enough when they were scolding him for it; why not when he was seeking treatment? Why did he always
feel like an inconvenience, a lesser priority than those with “real” medical issues?
The rec eptionist transferred the call, and Halleck answered on the first ring. “I’ve only got a minute.
Something came up in your A1 C results.” “Which one’s that again?” “A1 C measures your average blood
sugar levels over the past three months. A normal A1 C level is below 5.7 percent. Anything above 6.5
indicates diabetes.
Your A1 C came in at—” A plane flew overhead. Emmett couldn’t have heard what he thought he heard.
“Sorry, did you say—” “Eight-point-nine,” Halleck r epeated. Emmett’s stomach dropped. “You’re
saying... I have diabetes?”
“Almost enough for two.” The silence welcomed a horrible, gushing dread. His eyes welled with tears.
He faced the building to hide them from the drivers circling the side parking lot.
It had happened, the thing he’d dreaded more than anything. The ambient terror he had lived with for
years, crystallized at last into flashing, bladelike reality. The thought occurred like a cruel joke: You
always wanted a diagnosis to go with your obesity. Now you have one.
True to form, Halleck reminded Emmett of the potentially fatal health impacts, but already his tears were
slowing, the gushing dread bobbing back down his chest. He couldn’t pretend to be surprised by the
news; it was probably inevitable. On some level, Emmett felt, it was what he deserved.
“Will I have to take insulin?”
“Only as a last resort. You want to try managing it first. It’s possible to reverse the effects just through
diet and exercise. If your A1 C’s still up in three months, we can try you on metformin—”
“So I guess the clinical trial...” There was a wobble in Emmett’s voice, the emotion rebounding. He’d
been so close to freeing himself, so close to being happy. Of all the fat fucks competing for a place in the
trial, why did this have to happen to him?
“It should help,” Halleck said, “but you should still change your diet.” “Sorry. You said—” “The trial.
You still want to do it, don’t you?” “Yes. Yes, of course but... this doesn’t disqualify me?”
“Why would it?” “I don’t know, I just—” The realization clubbed him over the head. “So I’m approved?”
“I’ll send the paperwork to Monstera this afternoon. I have to go—” “Just one more—”
“If you have questions, call the rec eptionist and make another appointment.” The line went dead.
Asshole, Emmett thought. But the irritation burned off like the morning gloom. Despite the roller coaster
of emotions Halleck had put him through, Emmett was smiling.
Only as he returned to the store did it sink in. So much was riding on the outcome of this trial. Not just
his weight and his finances and his fragile dream of rekindling things with Aaron, but now his quality of
life too.
Perhaps he had every reason to hope, but he’d also never had more to lose.