The Great Escape

The plan was stupid. It was dangerous. It was exactly what they needed.

It required three things: a stolen wheelchair (acquired from the supply closet while Brenda was on break), a distraction (Leo pulled the fire alarm cover in the East Wing but didn't pull the lever, causing a localized tamper alert), and the service elevator code (0-4-5-1, which Leo had seen a janitor use).

At 11:00 PM on Wednesday night, the hospital was in "night mode." The lights were dimmed. The staff was skeletal.

Leo, balancing on his crutches, met Raf at the connection bridge. Raf was in the wheelchair, wrapped in three blankets, a portable oxygen tank tucked between his knees. He looked pale, but his eyes were shining with a manic energy.

"This is insane," Raf whispered. "We’re going to get expelled. Can you get expelled from a hospital?"

"Only if we live," Leo whispered back. "Let’s roll."

They navigated the corridors like ghosts. The service elevator took them down to the loading dock. The cool night air hit them like a physical blow—crisp, smelling of wet asphalt and dead leaves. It wasn't sterile. It smelled like life.

"Oh my god," Raf breathed, tilting his head back. "It’s snowing."

It was a light dusting, the flakes melting as they hit the pavement.

"Come on," Leo said, pushing the wheelchair. It was hard work with his broken leg, leaning his weight on the handles, hopping and pushing, but adrenaline masked the pain.

The campus was quiet. They moved up the winding path toward the Observatory. It took them twenty minutes to cover what a healthy person could walk in five. By the time they reached the top of the hill, Leo was sweating, his leg throbbing in the cast.

But they were there.

The Observatory sat silent and dark, the copper dome gleaming under the moonlight. They couldn't get inside—Leo hadn't managed to steal a key for that—but the view from the patio was enough.

Below them, the university sprawled out in a grid of lights. And further out, the city.

Raf wheeled himself to the edge of the overlook. He stood up.

"Raf, sit down," Leo warned, moving to support him.

"No," Raf said. He held onto the railing, his knuckles white. He took a deep breath of the freezing air. "I’m standing. I’m outside. I’m not a patient."

He turned to look at Leo. The snow caught in Raf’s dark curls. His cheeks were flushed with cold and exertion. He looked beautiful.

"Thank you, Nick," Raf whispered.

Leo dropped his crutches. He stepped forward, balancing on his good leg, and wrapped his arms around Raf’s waist to steady him.

"You’re welcome, Gatsby."

Raf looked up at him. The humor was gone, replaced by an intensity that made Leo’s breath hitch.

"I don't want to go back," Raf said softly.

"We have to," Leo said. "So you can get fixed. So we can do this for real next time. Without the wheelchair."

"Next time," Raf repeated. He leaned in.

The kiss was cold lips and warm breath. It tasted of snowflakes and fear and reckless hope. It was gentle, Raf’s hands clutching the lapels of Leo’s coat, Leo holding Raf as if he were made of glass.

It lasted for a second, or maybe an hour.

Then Raf pulled back, gasping. His hand went to his chest.

"Raf?" Leo asked, panic instantly piercing the bubble.

Raf’s knees buckled.

"Whoa, okay, sit down," Leo said, trying to lower him into the chair.

Raf slumped, his weight dead against Leo. The portable oxygen tank clattered.

"Raf!" Leo screamed.

Raf’s eyes were rolling back. His skin was turning a terrifying shade of gray. The exertion, the cold, the adrenaline—it was too much for his heart.

Leo fumbled for his phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. He didn't text. He dialed 911.

"Campus Observatory!" Leo shouted into the phone. "Cardiac arrest! We’re... we’re patients! Send help!"

He fell to his knees in the snow beside the wheelchair, ignoring the agony in his broken leg. He grabbed Raf’s hand. It was limp.

"Don't you dare," Leo sobbed, squeezing the cold fingers. "Don't you dare leave me alone in the text thread, Raf. Wake up!"

The sound of sirens cut through the snowy silence, wailing closer and closer.