Micah Johnson Goes West (Get Out, #2)(40)

He said it so matter-of-factly that it made his whole situation seem even worse.

“But you’re going to have to—” Emma started, and he cut her off.

“I know. But just not today. Or maybe even this week.” His words slurred a little again, and he appeared to be falling asleep.

Henry entered, a takeaway coffee in hand. He noticed the state of Will and said, “He drifts in and out a lot. He’ll probably be out of it for at least half an hour.”

“I’ll be back before I leave Sunday,” Micah told him.

“Me too,” added Emma.

“I’d really appreciate that,” Henry said, looking at them with a kindness that Micah felt they—or, most likely, just him—didn’t really deserve. “And I know Will does too. He has another operation next week, and he’s dreading it.”

“So soon?” Micah asked.

“It’s really just one of many. He’s got a long road ahead of him, poor kid.”

They loaded their numbers into Henry’s phone so he could keep them up to date with any progress. But as they walked away they still didn’t feel they had done enough.

Emma, especially, was brooding. “Poor Will. All he has is his uncle.”

“At least he has Henry.”

“I just hope things start… I don’t know, improving? Seems too mild a word.”

He knew what she meant. “We’ll think of something to try and help them.”

“Us to the rescue? He would have to be desperate.”

But it didn’t need to be said that things were pretty desperate.





Chapter 12


MICAH WENT straight from the hospital to training. He really didn’t want to go home and get a concerned and worried third degree about Will from his parents. He texted Dec to let him know he and Emma had been to the hospital, although he knew Emma would have done the same.

We’re going in later this arvo, came Declan’s reply. Good luck with training today. Try not to let it affect the game.

Yeah, nothing could ever affect the game.

It was easier said than done, but Micah knew Declan had had to go into many games himself with the same attitude, even when his personal life was falling apart. Once again it seemed selfish to worry about himself when Will was the one truly suffering, but Micah also had to admit he was feeling like shit. Every step from the car park to the players’ entrance of the Etihad Stadium felt like he was walking in wet concrete. And his head was starting to pound to the rhythm as well.

His team members were spread out over the oval, sorted out into small groups that were testing each other with tackles or handballs or short kicks. Micah stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do, when Sam waved him over to his group.

Sam came to meet him, a small distance away from the rest of the group so he wouldn’t be overheard. “How did it go?”

“Pretty fucking awful.”

“I bet. But how are you?”

“Just wanna train. Don’t want to think.”

Sam regarded him for a long moment as if he wanted to say something else, but he nodded. “Okay. We can do that.”

Micah started stretching, and pretty much remained silent the rest of the day.




DINNER WAS torturous; his parents kept giving him worried looks but he rebuffed any chance of conversation about Will, telling them only that it was looking pretty bad but at least Will was lucid and able to joke a little. He and Emma continued to text each other throughout the night, only causing themselves more misery and ending with plans to meet each other at the hospital again after Micah’s game. Micah also knew Dec was commentating the game tomorrow, and dreaded the thought of probably having to rehash every little thing about Will again.

Sleep didn’t come easy, but he finally did so early in the morning and could have cried when the alarm went off what felt like only moments later.

By the time he was out of the shower he had already missed some messages on his phone—Emma, Dec, Simon, Fran, and Carl all wishing him luck at the game today. He was heartened by the fact that he had that many people who cared about him, but it reminded him of Will in his hospital room—which would seem pretty empty with only his uncle for company. Or maybe he was just talking himself up—Will surely had other friends. His football team must be looking after him. And then there was him and Emma, Simon and Dec, and probably other members of GetOut—he was sure there were other people who cared about Will. But it didn’t seem to matter that much when the one person Will wanted to see wouldn’t turn up.

Even though Micah and Emma were trying to dream up plans about how to help Will, they knew they wouldn’t be able to give Will the one thing he wanted.

Or could they?




“I DON’T know, Micah,” Emma said, when he called her the next morning.

Micah stretched his foot out in the air above his head, his mobile on speaker so he could hear her response, feeling the burn. It was only hours away from the game. He had slept like shit, and caffeine wasn’t helping. He was already doing some stretches in preparation for the match, even though he would be doing them under supervision at the stadium anyway. It never hurt to do a little bit extra.

“All I want to do is try,” Micah said. “At least if we try, we know we did it. It’s better than thinking maybe we could have, and regretting it.”