Chapter 4Pillow Talk of Death

The acacia trees on campus were blooming everywhere.

For someone with pollen allergies, this season was a nightmare.

I carried my epinephrine auto-injector everywhere – it was a lifeline for anyone with severe allergies.

During a severe allergic reaction, epinephrine must be injected within minutes, or it could lead to laryngeal edema and suffocation.

In my previous life, on May 18th, I suddenly had an allergic reaction outside the classroom.

Difficulty breathing, swollen throat, blurred vision.

Vera had frantically rummaged through my bag, found my epinephrine auto-injector, and tearfully injected me.

But it brought no relief.

Because that pen was expired.

Expired epinephrine degrades and becomes ineffective; injecting it was useless.

It was only when a passing school nurse gave me a new shot that I was pulled back from the brink.

I lay in the emergency room all day.

Vera knelt by my bed, crying, “Eleanor, I’m so sorry! I didn’t know this pen could expire… It’s all my fault for not checking when I helped you organize your medicine cabinet…”

Nathan said, “It’s your life-saving medication; if you don’t check it yourself, what good is blaming Vera?”

This time, I was prepared.

On May 10th, I bought two brand new epinephrine auto-injectors.

One I placed in my medicine cabinet, openly visible, with a date three months old, almost expired.

The other I hid in the innermost secret pocket of my backpack, brand new.

Then I waited.

May 15th.

I returned to the dorm and noticed my medicine cabinet had been disturbed.

The epinephrine auto-injector I’d placed in plain sight was still there.

But when I picked it up and turned it, there was an extremely fine scratch on the pen.

This wasn’t the same pen I’d put in there.

Someone had swapped my pen, replacing it with an identical-looking one.

I opened it to check the expiration date.

Expired by eight months.

This was even more ruthless than in my previous life.

Last time it was at least almost expired; this time, it was a completely useless pen, expired by eight months.

I put the expired pen back in the medicine cabinet, untouched.

Then I took a photo with my phone.

May 18th.

At 3 PM, a few classmates and I were discussing a project on the lawn outside the academic building.

The acacia pollen concentration was high.

My nose started to itch, and my eyes felt a bit puffy.

Vera appeared nearby, handing me a bottle of water.

“Eleanor, are you feeling unwell? Should we go to the infirmary?”

I took the water but didn’t drink it.

“I’m fine.”

After a while, I felt my throat starting to tighten.

My hand reached into the secret pocket of my backpack, gripping the new epinephrine auto-injector.

Then I made a decision.

I closed my eyes and slumped backward.

Feigning an allergic reaction.

“Eleanor Bennett! What’s wrong with you?!”

“Quick, call an ambulance!”

The scene erupted into chaos.

Vera was the first to rush over, falling to her knees beside me.

“Eleanor! Eleanor, don’t scare me!”

Her movements were quick.

She flipped open the outer compartment of my backpack and pulled out the epinephrine auto-injector from the medicine cabinet.

“Found it! I’ll inject her!”

A classmate nearby shouted, “Do you know how to use it?”

“Yes! I’ve seen the tutorials!” Vera said, pulling off the cap and aiming it at my outer thigh.

I opened my eyes and grabbed her wrist.

“No need.”

I pulled out the new epinephrine auto-injector from my secret pocket and injected myself.

Within minutes, the allergic symptoms rapidly subsided.

I sat up, my breathing steady.

Vera stood frozen, still holding the expired, useless pen.

I looked at her.

“Vera, is that the pen you took from my medicine cabinet?”

“Yes… yes, it is…”

“Then take a look. How many months expired is it?”

Vera looked down at the date on the pen.

Her expression quickly shifted to one of panic.

“What? Expired? How could this be… Eleanor, I didn’t know… I didn’t notice when I helped you organize your medicine cabinet before…”

“Really.”

I stood up, brushing grass from my skirt.

“Then tell me, where did the unexpired pen in my medicine cabinet go? I replaced it with a new one two weeks ago. How did it become one that’s eight months expired?”

Vera’s mouth opened, but no words came out.

That evening, while Vera was in the shower, I once again opened her notebook.

Next to May 18th, two words had been added.

Failed.

I flipped to the next page.

A line of text, written with such force the paper was nearly torn.

[If all three attempts fail, initiate Plan B.]

Plan B?

I continued to flip.

The last page of the notebook.

It only had one line of text and an address.

[Find Sister Johnson. Westside Old Factory District, Building 17.]

Westside Old Factory District.

I opened my phone and searched the address.

The first news headline that popped up made my pupils contract sharply.

[Ten Years Ago, Westside Pharmaceutical Factory Safety Incident Led to Three Deaths; Factory Director Johnson Sentenced to Seven Years.]

Head of the accident investigation team: Eleanor’s mom, Martha Bennett.

Martha Bennett.

My mother.