“A pen,” he says, his eyes scanning Simon’s brick-red face. “You have a pen?” Simon nods wildly, his hand clawing at his throat. I grab the pen off my desk and try to hand it to Nate, thinking he’s about to do an emergency tracheotomy or something. Nate just stares at me like I have two heads. “An epinephrine pen,” he says, searching for Simon’s backpack. “He’s having an allergic reaction.”
