“Could you stop? I need cigarettes,” I said, checking my pockets.

“Can I remind you that we have someone O.D.ing in the backseat?” Donald said.

Raymond was hunched over the wheel, looking worried, like he could use a cigarette and was seriously considering it.

I ignored Donald and said, “It’ll just take a minute.”

“No,” Raymond said, though he seemed unsure.

“He’s not O.D.ing,” I said, almost furious, thinking about an empty bar in North Camden. “He’s just a Freshman. Freshmen don’t O.D.”

“Fuck you!” Donald said. “Oh shit, he’s throwing up. He’s gonna throw up.”

We could hear the retching sounds in the darkness of the Saab and I turned around to get a better look. Harry was still coughing and looked sweaty.

“Open the window,” Raymond screamed. “Open the f**king window!”

“You two should really calm down. He’s not throwing up,” I said, pissed-off but sad.

“He’s gonna throw up. I just know it,” Donald was shouting.

“What do you call that sound?” Raymond inquired about the retching, shouting at me.

“Dry heaves?” I shouted back.

Harry started to mumble to himself, then he started to retch again.

“Oh no,” Donald said, trying to lift Harry’s head up to the window. “He’s going to throw up again!”

“Good,” Raymond shouted back. “It’s good if he throws up. Let him throw up.”

“I can’t believe you two,” I said. “Can I change this tape?”

Raymond drove up to the Emergency entrance and stopped the car with a screech. We all got out and pulled Harry from the backseat and with his feet dragging carried him to the front desk. The place was empty. Muzak was coming from invisible speakers on the ceiling. A young fat nurse looked at us and smirked, probably thinking, oh boy, another Camden College prank. “Yes?” she asked, not looking at Harry.

“This guy’s O.D.ing,” Raymond said, walking over to the desk, leaving Harry in Donald’s clutches.

“O.D.ing?” she asked, getting up.

Then the doctor on duty came out. He looked like Jack Elam, some old fat guy with thick glasses, mumbling to himself. Donald lay Harry on the floor. “Thank God,” Raymond murmured, in a way that sounded like he was relieved this whole situation was in someone else’s hands and not his. The doctor leaned over to check Harry’s vital signs. I knew the guy was a quack when he didn’t ask any of us anything. None of us said a word. It irritated me that Raymond and Donald not only made me miss this all-important meeting but also that they were wearing the same long wool jacket I was wearing. I had bought mine first at the Salvation Army store in town for thirty dollars. It was Loden wool. Then the next day the two of them ran down and bought the two remaining, probably donated by someone on the faculty who was going West, to teach in California or somwhere. The doctor grunted and raised Harry’s eyelids. Harry laughed a little, then jerked around and lay still.

“Will you get him into the Emergency room.” Raymond’s face was red. “Hurry. Isn’t there anyone else here?” He looked around, frantic in a practiced way. Like someone who’s worried, but not really, about getting into Palladium or something.

The doctor ignored him. His shock of gray-white hair was unsuccessfully greased back and stiff, and he kept grunting. He checked Harry’s pulse, found nothing, and then unbuttoned Harry’s shirt and placed the stethoscope to his tan, bony chest. We all stood there in the empty hospital. The doctor checked the pulse again and grunted. Harry was moving around a little, a drunken smile on his young Freshman face. The doctor checked for a heartbeat, for any sign. He used the stethoscope again. The doctor finally looked at the three of us and said, “I’m not getting any pulse.”

Donald threw a hand over his mouth and backed into the wall behind him.

“He’s dead?” Raymond asked, disbelieving. “Is this a joke?”

“Oh shit, I can see him moving,” I said, pointing at the rise and fall of his chest. “He’s not dead. I can see him breathing.”

“He’s dead, Paul. Shut up! I knew it. I knew it!” Donald said.

“I’m sorry about this, boys,” the doctor said, shaking his head. “How did this happen?”

“Oh God,” Donald wailed.

“Shut up before I slap you,” I told him. “Look. He’s not dead.”

“Boys, I’m not getting a heartbeat or a pulse. The pupils look dilated to me.” The doctor wheezed with the strain of getting up, and pointing at Harry, “That boy’s dead.”