Page 26 of Burn

How much did I lose in the fire?

The door to the room flies open, and a new nurse rushes in, pushing Lane out of the way. She glances at the oxygen stats,then pulls her stethoscope off her neck. With practiced precision, she slides the earpieces into her ears. At the same time, she presses a button on the oxygen machine, silencing the alarms. She pulls the front of my gown aside and presses the diaphragm into my chest, listening intently. I continue to sob, gasp, and cough.

“Your heart rate is high, and your oxygen levels are dropping. Let’s sit you up higher and help you calm down.” Her tone is curt. She pulls a phone from her pocket, punching something into the screen before replacing it. “Okay, Morgan, eyes on me.” Those words cause me to spiral further. His words. His commands. “Morgan. Come on, girl. Look at me.”

Lane’s soft, familiar voice breaks through the deafening pounding in my ears.

“Come on, Lex. You can do this.”

The room feels like it’s collapsing on me, but I look into her eyes.

“Okay, good. Follow my lead.” She takes a slow, exaggerated inhale, encouraging me along. “In, two, three, four, five. Good. Out, two, three, four, five.” She counts me through my breathing, slowly and methodically, until the coughing subsides, and all that is left are the slow, gentle tears that leak down my face. “Good girl.” I wince again.

Fuck, she needs to stop saying this shit.

“I’ve ordered you Lorazepam. It’ll help you relax,” she says, and my eyes go wide. I was prescribed that drug as a teen. After I moved in with my dad, I was plagued by nightmares of the night Mom was taken away. I’d wake to him shaking me violently, telling me I’d been screaming. After weeks of it happening, he put me in therapy, and my psychiatrist prescribed Lorazepam.

Under no circumstances do I want that now. Not when I have so many questions.

“Please,” I rush out between sniffles. “I’m okay. I don’t need that. Please give me a chance. I want to talk to my friends.” I’m borderline begging her, and I don’t realize how hard I’m clinging to her forearms until she tries to pull them away. When I glance down, I see the half-moons my nails left on her ivory skin. “Sorry,” I say, quickly folding my hands in my lap.

She’s silent for a long while, and I think she’ll tell me, too bad. But she sighs and gives me a stern look, “Okay — one chance. You’re still considered critical, and I am not going to explain to the doctors why a stable patient crashed when she’s almost in the clear. Deal?”

I nod enthusiastically and force a smile onto my face. “Deal.”

She presses more buttons on the machines beside my bed, adjusts the oxygen tube under my nose, and stands. She shifts her attention to Lane when she speaks. “You know it’s not even visiting hours yet. Don’t make us regret letting you two stay.”

With that, she turns and walks out the door.

Lane snickers a sarcastic laugh. “Well, she’s fun.”

I let out a tiny laugh, leaning my head back against my pillow and closing my eyes. The lingering taste of ash on my tongue pulls me back to the fire — a memory I’d forgotten — his eyes in the smoke. The sting in my throat is nothing compared to the agony in my heart as the memory plays out in my mind. I remember the phone call.

“Lex, are you outside?”

His panicked tone came through the speaker of my phone, along with the sound of the alarms at my apartment. He would be here if he were okay. Heshouldbe here. I open my eyes, tearswelling in them again. Dave clears his throat, and Lane looks at him.

“I’m gonna go for a quick walk. Let you two have some time alone,” he says gently. Without waiting for a response, he turns and quietly exits the room.

Lane turns back to me, an expectant expression on her face.

“Lane,” I whisper, fighting the sob logged in my chest, my voice faltering. “Did Adrian…” I struggle with the words. “Has he been here?”

She doesn’t need to say a word. I can see it all over her face. No, he hasn’t been here.

“I don’t know, honey,” she lies. “Not while we’ve been here. I can go ask the nurses.”

I nod, wiping at my face. She stands slowly. “Can I get you anything else?” she asks.

I shake my head as she walks away, going to ask the nurses a question she already knows the answer to.

If he’s not here or hasn’t been, something must have happened. He must be one of the casualties. Alone in this room again, and the silence echoes around me. I grip the railing of the bed, hoping to anchor myself to reality, but my mind shows me horrifying images of him in the fire. The last few times I spoke to him were brutal. I told him I hated him, to stay away from me, that I didn’t care about him. We were so angry.

He called me. I can call him back.

I search the room from my spot in bed. I can’t get up. I don’t trust my body not to fail me if I attempt to get to my feet. I look at every visible table-top, but it’s not there. I don’t remember if I had my phone when I left my apartment. I accept that it’s not here, and denial kicks in. It’s hysterical. The voice in my head scoffs bitterly.

He’s not dead. He’s too fucking stubborn.

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