Page 25 of The Voice We Find

“I’ll get a quick check of his vitals for Dr. Rock, and then I can get you checked in as well, Mrs.—”

“Sophie.” I interrupt using my best stage smile, hoping it will ward off any follow-up questions about my non-relation to August.

At the sound of my name, the patient in question lifts his fever-glazed eyes to mine. There’s a small wrinkle in his brow, as if he’s as confused by my presence as I am, and I offer him a little wave that I hope translates toI’m so sorry for invading your privacyand also,I don’t want you to be alone. The moment is short-lived as Bruce steps between us to help August onto the bed.

“August,” Bruce says in an authoritative tone. “Can you manage getting a gown on without assistance?”

August lifts his chin an inch and gives him a look that would cripple a lesser man.

“No,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“Then do I have your consent to assist you?”

When August confirms, I start toward the curtain, poised to walk out, when Bruce stops me. “Would you mind holding that gown open for me, Sophie?” He gestures to the limp strip of fabric at the foot of the bed. And then to August he says, “We’ll try and make this as pain-free as possible.”

When Bruce works to stretch the fabric of August’s T-shirt wide enough for his swollen arm to fit through, we hear a labored “Just ... cut it off.”

Bruce wastes no time with this request. He cuts a long slit in both sleeves and then one straight line from the neck down to the waist. The shocking flash of August’s toned chest steals the breath straight out of me, and I quickly hold up the printed gown like a shield until Bruce’s adept hands take it from me and finish the job.

Within three minutes of Dr. Rock’s examination of August’s infected palm, the termcellulitisis spoken multiple times to Bruce, followed by the phraseswound flushandIV antibiotics. None of which sound great. Unfortunately, I’m not wrong about that.

The following hour or so is a blur of adrenaline and anguish—and I’m not even the one who had to endure it. Sometime duringthe flush-out portion of August’s treatment plan, I reached for his right hand and held on tight as he hissed in pain. I couldn’t say if it lasted two minutes or two hours, but even if I live to be a hundred, it would be too soon to see a repeat of that procedure.

Bruce was just setting August up with his IV meds when I stepped out to get the cup of ice he requested. And to take a breather from the intensity of the emergency room drama. Truth is, I’ve been around enough realistic-looking medical props in theater not to flinch at the sight of blood or gore, but watching someone writhe in pain when all you can do is hold their hand and tell them they’re going to be okay takes a toll on a person.

As soon as I escape into the quiet to locate the ice machine, my nerves take a collective sigh. Hospital cup in hand, I flatten my back against the wall and feel the cold cinder blocks calm me from the outside in.He’s going to be fine. Everything is fine.

I breathe in through my nose and out through my mouth and repeat the words several times over in my head before I’m able to fill the insulated cup with ice. I’ve just turned toward the hallway that leads to August’s temporary quarters when my phone rings.

And its only then I remember.

Dana.

I scramble to maneuver the cup from my dominant hand so I can answer before it goes to voicemail. “Hello?”

“Hey, girl.” Her face fills my screen. Her hair is in a high ponytail, and I recognize the bright coral top she’s wearing because I have the same one. We bought matching jammies last summer that read:Vacay in my pjs. “You ready? I want to hear all about your first day! I totally splurged and bought the expensive root beer you like for my float tonight and even made our favorite snack mix to celebrate.” She lifts a bowl of assorted savory and sweet treats and shakes it. “And before you ask, no. I did not buy pickle ice

cream—”

“Oh, Dana, I’m so sorry,” I whisper as I tuck myself into the small alcove near the ice machine. “But I’m not at home right now. There was a bit of an emergency.”

“Emergency?” She leans closer to her laptop screen, eyes going wide. “Where are you?”

“The hospital.”

“What?” she yells, and I hear the snack bowl she just showed me clunk down hard onto the coffee table I bought at a flea market. “Why? Are you hurt? Sick? Did something—”

“It’s not me,” I amend quickly. “I drove a friend here.” Did holding someone’s hand during an agonizing procedure qualify as a friendship? “He has a pretty serious infection in his palm from an untreated cut, so I offered to take him in.”

She blinks. Stares. And blinks again. “Wait, does thisfriendalso happen to be Hot Producer Guy with the naturally beach-blond hair and sultry blue eyes?”

I nod, half regretting my description of August to her last week even though it all still holds one hundred percent true. Though, to be fair,hotandsultrywere her word choices, not mine. Still, August and I are coworkers. And even if this job is only meant as a placeholder for the next few months, he is more than his pretty head of hair and ridiculous set of sea-blue eyes. He’s a professional. I make a mental note to speak about him as such from now on—even if the only one I speak to is my best friend.

“He’s on meds now and is already doing better. I don’t think I’ll be here too much longer, but I’m not sure how he’s getting home yet. He mentioned he has a ride coming, but so far I haven’t seen anyone. Can I text you when I leave? Maybe we’ll still have a little time before you have to get to sleep.”

There’s a slight wiggle to her eyebrows as she says, “You’re there with him alone? Just the two of you?”

“We’re in a public hospital, inside a tiny space with a curtain for a door,” I confirm. “If I had to guess, there are likely a thousand people somewhere within the vicinity of this building right now.”

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