Page 11 of Hidden Nature

“A big one. I… I had to pee. A Dr Pepper for Joel, and he’d gas up the truck. I went in to pee and get drinks. That’s why I went into the mini-mart. I remember that now.”

“You may have some blank spots. Nothing to worry about.”

She lifted a hand to her forehead. “It could’ve been worse.”

Now he didn’t smile. “It often is. I’ll check in on you later.”

“We’re going to get you up slowly,” Angie told her. “You’re going to feel light-headed, and you want to wait for that to pass. Your gown crosses in the front for access, so your butt’s covered.”

“Good to know.”

It took longer than she imagined just to get on her feet, and to discover her feet didn’t feel connected to the legs that felt like overcooked spaghetti.

But she made it to the door, dragging the IV pole, then a few steps beyond into the hall, where Drea waited with a wheelchair.

“I’m backup.”

The bitchiness rushed back. “I don’t want that. I don’t need that.”

But in the end, she did need it, and had to bite down on the anger that streamed up from her gut.

“You’re frustrated,” Angie said, “but you’re wrong. You walked forjust over two minutes. This afternoon, you’ll walk again. And this evening, again.”

“You may be top bitch,” Drea said as she pushed the wheelchair, “but you’re no quitter.”

Damn right. So for the next three, endless days, she walked. Two minutes, three, then five at a time. She did the prescribed breathing exercises every hour of the day and whenever she woke at night.

She didn’t bring up the nightmares that woke her. They were her business, and she determined they’d fade away. Reliving the moment the shooter had turned, had fired, struck her as normal.

And she’d get through it. She had a goal, and that was discharge.

When that day came, it brought joy, then shock and a low-simmering anger.

She sat in one of the chairs—a relief, and progress. Vincenti sat in the other.

“Your healing’s progressing very well. Your appetite isn’t.”

“Could it possibly be hospital food?”

“You think I don’t know they brought you in your grandmother’s chicken soup—very tasty, by the way—a cheeseburger and fries from McDonald’s, pulled pork and roasted potatoes your mother made. She’s sent the recipe to my wife, at my request. I’m a lousy cook.”

“Nothing gets by you.”

“It didn’t get by me you barely ate any of it. You’ve lost eleven pounds since you were admitted. This isn’t unusual, but it’s something we need to correct.”

“I’ll work on it.”

“When we do our follow-up in two weeks, I’d like to see at least three pounds gained.”

“Two weeks? But—”

“Follow-up,” he interrupted. “I’m discharging you in the morning.” He held up a hand. “There are conditions.”

“I’ll meet them.”

“You can’t live alone. We can reevaluate that in two weeks. Your apartment is on the third floor, no elevator. That won’t do for now. Your parents assure me you can live with them at home until you’re fully recovered.”

“I’m stationed in Stevensville, and my family lives in Heron’s Rest. That’s almost four hours’ distance.”

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