Page 121 of Dirty Mechanic
“Ten minutes,” she snaps. “Stay with her. I’ve got gauze in the car.”
She bolts.
I look at Annabelle. She’s kneeling beside Blake, face streaked with tears, hands shaking.
He’s on the floor now, unconscious, and she’s checking his pulse.
“What happened?” I ask, barely holding it together.
“I don’t know,” she says. “He just collapsed. It might be secondary drowning. We need the hospital.”
I nod. “You okay?”
She meets my eyes.
“I don’t think I’ll ever be okay again.”
I nod again. Fair.
But I can’t fall apart. Not yet.
Not while Misty’s still bleeding. Not while Blake’s unconscious. Not while Rick is out there.
My fists curl tightly. This night has taken too much.
Blake’s breath. Misty’s blood. Annabelle’s fragile peace.
And one brutal truth slams into my chest like a punch I didn’t see coming?—
I can’t lose them.
Not now. Not ever.
But the edges of my vision start to dim, black creeping in like spilled ink. My legs give a warning tremble. Pain pulses behind my eyes—deep and insistent. I try to stand, to move, to fight it off?—
But my body isn’t listening anymore.
I sink to my knees. The world tilts. A voice—Annabelle’s?—calls my name. But it’s too far away.
And then everything goes dark.
I wake to the sound of measured, mechanical beeping. Something’s clamped tightly around my wrist—plastic cuff, cool metal. My chest screams the moment I shift. Every inch of me aches—muscles stiff, skin chafed, throat raw like I swallowed the river.
The bed creaks. My head turns—or tries to. Tape pulls like it’s ripping skin off the back of my neck. An IV drips next to me. Sterile air swells with antiseptic and metal. The scent hits like déjà vu—riverside blood, panic, rot.
My vision swims.
“Derek?” My voice barely makes it out.
A groan. A shift. The faintest rustle of sheets, and I turn, heart leaping to my throat, head throbbing like bomb’s about to go off.
“Derek?” I try again.
He stirs. Groggy. Eyes swimming as they try to find mine. A wince cuts across his face. His ribs must be screaming. Still, his hand stretches toward me, slow and shaky, until our fingers touch. Just barely.
“Hey,” he rasps.
God. That sound. I nearly sob. “I thought I’d wake up six feet under.” I force a laugh, brittle and shaking. “This is… nicer.”
