Page 91 of DFF: Delicate Freakin' Flower

I couldn’t see much from beneath the sheet, but I could hear everything—nurses chatting behind their desks, the squeak of sneakers on tile floors, the occasional beep of a monitor, and the soft, steady paging over the intercom. No one stopped us. Not a single person questioned the elderly man confidently pushing a gurney through the ICU wing as if he were on his way to Bingo night.

It was unreal.

Eventually, we reached a quieter section of the hospital and came to a stop. I peeked from beneath the sheet to see Ira peering both ways before veering sharply to the right.

“This way,” he whispered. "Now, play dead."

He parked the gurney beside a side door and ducked into the adjacent alcove. A moment later, he reappeared with a stolen wheelchair—scuffed but functional—and grinned like a teenager skipping school.

“All right, up we go. Slowly, though. The last thing I need is Webb kicking my tuchus because I got you hurt."

It took some careful maneuvering—i.e., an excruciating eternity—but eventually, I was eased into the chair, biting down on a whimper when my stomach protested too sharply. Then Ira wheeled me out into the night like we were just two night-shift regulars going for a post-shift break.

I blinked up at the truck parked in the far corner of the lot. “You drive a lifted F-150?”

“Of course! It’s got the good shocks and a nice radio. And Glady's car's never going to move again after the accident, so you'll like it.”

I wanted to laugh, but breathing hurt too much.

Getting into that beast of a truck felt like scaling a cliff face with no harness. Ira helped as gently as he could, but it was still slow, awkward, and painful. By the time I was in the seat and the door closed behind me, I was sweating through the scrubs.

He climbed in behind the wheel, started the engine, and gave me a quick glance. “We clear?”

I looked around warily. “Looks like it.”

“Good. You owe me a peach cobbler because the nurse was going to bring me one tomorrow, by the way.”

I turned my head carefully. “Wait, what nurse?”

He shrugged, keeping his eyes on the road. “Kaitlyn. She’s the granddaughter of my friend Leonard. I gave her two thousand dollars and swore on my collection of Civil War canteens that I wouldn’t mention her name if we got caught. She gave me your meds and some tips on how to make it through the first two days without killing you by accident.”

My heart squeezed.

“That’s a lot to ask of her.”

“I know, but it’s not about her. It’s about you, and you need to be alive.”

I stayed quiet for a long while after that, saying nothing as I stared out the window. The streetlights blurred past, one after another, casting fleeting glows across my face. Pain keptme grounded, a constant throb beneath the surface, while adrenaline pushed me forward, refusing to let me stop.

Eventually, he asked, “Where are we going, exactly?”

“Mississippi,” I sighed, my head against the window. “I need to go back to the bayou cabin. I know some raccoons who’ll be thrilled to see me.”

He chuckled. “Raccoons, huh?”

“They like sardines and wieners,” I drawled, half-conscious. “We’ll need to stop at a store because I also need clothes. Real ones. And underwear.” That last part was vital to me because I didn't want to live for however long without panties and bras. It was awkward enough being naked under the scrubs.

Ira nodded seriously. “Sardines, wieners, and fresh threads. I got it covered.”

I let my eyes close, and despite everything, a small smile tugged at my lips. We were on the run again—but this time, I wasn’t doing it alone.

By the timeIra parked the truck just off the old trail leading to the cabin, the sun was already climbing toward its mid-morning peak. Light streamed through the trees in warm, golden shafts, catching the moss hanging from the branches and setting it aglow. The air was thick and still, humming with the low buzz of insects and the distant call of birds waking to the late morning heat.

That was enough of me feeling poetic. It'd been a long drive. Between avoiding highways, taking backroads, and making a couple of quiet stops for supplies, we’d burned through most of the night. My body felt like one huge bruise stitched together with surgical tape and frustration, but knowing the cabin was close filled me with something like relief.

“I should be the one pushing the wheelchair,” I mumbled as Ira pulled out the folded-up chair, already stacking bags filled with sardines, wieners, some random cans of beans, and clothes I could only hope weren’t tie-dye next to it.

“You can be the one pushing it next time,” he replied, opening the door on my side. “Right now, your job is to stay in one piece.”

---