Erin

I can hardly keep my eyes open. Between only sleeping in spurts and not eating, I have almost no energy.

It’s been three days. Three long, stressful days. Unless I had to use the bathroom, I’ve been sitting or lying on the floor near the bottom of the stairway the entire time. If that door opens, I want to run toward freedom.

But I’m worn out. The five of us have become a twisted version of the Breakfast Club down here, and if it weren’t so sad, it’d be funny.

There’s Bryce—the one who keeps to himself but occasionally interjects comments. He mostly reads, watches movies, or just stares into space.

Then there’s Kenna—the one I want to kick in the face. She’s always got a snarky comment, at least for everyone but Derek. She treats him like God’s gift to humanity, laughing too loudly at every joke and offering help with his every move.

And Derek—the one who has appointed himself our leader. I mean, I don’t care. Telling us all we can take showers, reminding me to drink water, and assuring us that “help will come” seem to help him cope with being stuck down here. He also runs on the track twice a day and wipes off his sweaty face with the T-shirt he’s wearing—providing an ample view of his ripped stomach.

Obviously, I’m the Ally Sheedy in this mix. I seem to be the silent loner everyone keeps an eye on. My constant state of panic has passed, but I still have a queasy, unsettled feeling that never goes away.

Matias, though—he’s the one I’m starting to worry about. He always has a smile on his face and never complains, but being the silent one leaves me free to observe everyone else, and I’ve noticed that he hasn’t eaten much of anything down here. He takes a little food when it’s offered, but he just pushes it around the plate. He also doesn’t drink much, and he sometimes seems short of breath for no reason.

I’m watching him now, from my spot on the floor. He’s on the couch, looking down at his hands, which are in his lap. And even though Derek and Bryce are having an animated conversation about how the Raiders move to Las Vegas is changing the NFL’s rules on betting on football, Matias isn’t even paying attention. That’s not like him.

I get up from the floor and stretch my arms up, my back groaning in protest. That concrete floor is not a good place to spend three days.

As I walk over to the couch, Matias looks up at me and smiles. I sit down a few feet from him.

“How are you?” I ask him.

“Great. How about you?”

I shrug. “I’m okay.”

He nods and looks back down at his lap.

“Hey,” I say softly, so only he can hear. “I was thinking…want to make something to eat together? We can go check out the supply room and see if Derek’s hiding any steaks in there.”

Matias smiles. “Yeah, I wish.”

I nod toward the other end of the large bunker, where the door to the supply room is. “Let’s go.”

He shakes his head. “I’m good, but thanks.”

I turn sideways so I’m facing him on the couch. “I’m worried about you. Your face has thinned just from three days in here, and there wasn’t much extra meat on your bones to start with.”

His expression turns serious. “Yeah.”

“Are you okay?”

He looks straight ahead, the corners of his mouth turning down slightly. “Not really.”

His tone is so soft I can barely hear him. This is the first time I’ve seen him be anything but upbeat, and my worry intensifies.

“You can talk to me.” My tone is nearly a whisper now.

Matias turns to me and holds his hands out in front of him. I look down and see that they’re visibly swollen. My heart kicks up a notch as I look up and meet his dark brown eyes.

“I have chronic kidney disease,” he says. “Stage Four.”

My lips part slightly in surprise. Kidney disease? Matias? He looks like a healthy nineteen-year-old.

“What does that mean?” I ask.

His shoulders slump. “A lot of things. Means I have to limit my fluid intake and be careful what I eat. The swelling is from fluid retention.”

“Okay. So…this can be managed.”

“Kinda. I just found out last week that I’m at Stage Four. I was diagnosed at Stage Three a couple years ago. Stage Five is kidney failure.”

It’s not so much his words, but the worry in his tone, that renders me silent for a few seconds. And when I do speak, I don’t give him a pat on the back and tell him help will come soon. I know what it’s like to be worried sick, and he has very good reason to be. He needs validation right now, not an attaboy pep talk.

“What can I do to help?” I ask him.

He looks down at his hands again. “I guess, just…keep an eye on me. I haven’t said anything because there’s nothing anyone can do about it, you know?”

I nod. “So you said you have to be careful what you eat. What does that mean?”

He looks up at the ceiling and considers. “The dietician said to limit potassium and phosphorus. And sodium. No canned or preserved foods. Fresh is best.”

What he needs is exactly what we have none of down here. His health is deteriorating before my eyes. Suddenly my claustrophobia is forgotten.

“Okay,” I say. “So our options are limited, but we need to find things you can have. I bet there’s a lot in that room.”

“The thing is…I’m not even hungry. That’s one of the signs that…things aren’t going good. And I’m so thirsty, I could just…” He looks away.

“What about ice chips?” I suggest.

“Yeah, that might work.”

“And look—” I reach over and put a hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to be hungry to eat. We need to get something in you, to keep your strength up. Even if it’s small.”

He nods. “Yeah, okay.”

“Good.”

I stand up, and he follows suit. I see Derek looking at us out of the corner of his eye as we walk to the storage room. He pauses in his train of thought about football for a second but then picks it right back up.

Matias is right. There’s no reason to tell the others about his condition—yet. But now I know why he looked so forlorn as he stared down at his swollen hands. More so than any of the rest of us, he needs to get out of here, and soon.