Page 34 of Run Omega Run
Moments later, the soft knock on Mom's door barely registered above the construction noise outside, but the familiar scent that drifted through the slightly open doorway made my pulse quicken with recognition. Toffee, rich and warm, mixed with something clinical that spoke of hospitals and healing—Cole's scent, unmistakable and somehow comforting in its association with professional competence.
"Come in," I called quietly, not wanting to disturb Mom if she'd managed to fall asleep.
Cole pushed the door open with careful precision, his tall frame filling the doorway as he assessed the room with the kind of systematic attention that marked him as someone accustomed to making quick, accurate judgments about medical situations. His dark clothing made him look like a shadow against the afternoon light filtering through our cracked window, but the medical bag in his hand and the gentle expression on his usually serious face immediately transformed the atmosphere from somber to hopeful.
"How is she?" he asked, his voice pitched low enough to avoid waking Mom if she was sleeping, but clear enough to carry the authority of someone who expected honest answers to medical questions.
"She's been awake most of the afternoon," I replied, smoothing the blankets around Mom's shoulders with hands that had grown steady through repetition. "More alert than she's been in weeks. The medications from the hospital seem to be helping."
Cole nodded, setting his medical bag down on the small table beside the bed with movements that were economical and practiced. "Good. The IV fluids probably helped clear some toxins that were building up." He looked down at Mom's sleeping face, his expression softening with something that looked like genuine concern. "May I examine her?"
I shifted my chair back to give him space, watching as he opened his bag and withdrew the familiar tools of medical assessment—stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, a small flashlight that he tested with a quick click before approaching the bed.
Mom stirred as he placed the blood pressure cuff around her arm, her eyes opening with the slightly unfocused look that came with waking from medication-aided sleep. But when she saw Cole's serious face hovering above her, she smiled with surprising warmth.
"The mortician," she said, her voice still thick with drowsiness but carrying a note of teasing that I hadn't heard from her in months. "Come to check whether I'm ready for your services?"
Cole's lips quirked upward in what might have been the beginning of a smile, though his expression remained professionally composed. "Not quite yet, I hope," he replied, his tone dry as autumn leaves. "Though I have to say, your timing would be terrible. I'm completely booked through next Tuesday."
Mom's laugh was barely more than a wheeze, but it was genuine, and I felt something tight in my chest loosen at the sound. "Well then," she said, "I suppose I'll have to stick around a while longer."
"I'd appreciate that," Cole said, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around her thin arm with movements that were gentle despite the clinical nature of his task. "Dead patients are much easier to work with, but they're terrible conversationalists."
I found myself smiling despite the macabre nature of his humor, understanding instinctively that this was Cole's way of making a frightening situation more bearable. Death was his daily profession, but instead of making him callous, it seemed to have given him a unique perspective on the value of the time we had left.
The blood pressure cuff inflated with a soft hissing sound, and Cole watched the gauge with the focused attention of someone reading vital information. "Ninety-seven over sixty," he announced after a moment. "Better than I expected, actually."
He moved on to the stethoscope, warming the metal disk between his palms before placing it against Mom's chest. The room fell quiet except for the distant sounds of construction work, and I held my breath while he listened to her lungs, which had been failing her for weeks.
"Deep breath," he instructed, moving the stethoscope to different positions on her chest and back. "And another."
Mom complied as best she could, though I could see the effort each breath required. Cole's expression remained neutral throughout the examination, giving away nothing about what he was hearing or what it might mean for the trajectory of her illness.
"The fluid buildup is definitely reduced," he said finally, coiling the stethoscope with practiced efficiency. "The hospital medication is doing its job." He paused, studying Mom's face with the careful attention of someone accustomed to delivering hard information with compassion. "But I can see you're still experiencing significant discomfort."
Mom nodded, her hand moving to her chest where I knew the constant ache had been growing worse despite the improvement in her breathing. "It's manageable," she said, but the tightness around her eyes told a different story.
"It doesn't have to be just manageable," Cole said, reaching into his medical bag again. "I brought stronger pain medication. Something that will help you rest more comfortably." He withdrew a small vial and a syringe, handling both with the careful precision of someone who understood how powerful the contents were. "This is morphine. It will help with both the pain and the anxiety that comes with struggling to breathe."
I watched him prepare the injection with movements that were both efficient and reassuring. The needle was tiny, hardly visible against his dark clothing, but I could see Mom's apprehension as he approached with it.
"Just a small pinch," Cole said, his voice gentler than I'd heard it before. "And then you should feel much more comfortable."
The injection took only seconds, but its effect was almost immediate. I watched the lines of pain that had become so familiar in Mom's face soften, her breathing becoming deeper and more regular as the medication took hold. Her shoulders, which had been hunched with chronic tension, gradually relaxed against the pillows.
"Better?" Cole asked, disposing of the syringe in a small sharps container he'd brought with him.
"Much," Mom replied, her voice carrying a note of wonder, as if she'd forgotten what it felt like to exist without constant discomfort. "Thank you."
Cole packed his supplies with the same methodical precision he'd used to prepare them, but his eyes remained fixed on Mom's face, monitoring her response to the medication with professional attention. "This should help for several hours," he said. "I'll leave additional doses with Heather, along with instructions for administration."
As he closed his medical bag and prepared to leave, I found myself overwhelmed by gratitude that felt too large for words.
"Thank you," I whispered, the words feeling inadequate but carrying all the emotion I could pack into them.
Cole turned toward me, his dark eyes meeting mine with understanding that went deeper than professional courtesy. "It's nothing," he said simply, but there was warmth in his voice that suggested it was everything to him.
As I followed him toward the door, he paused in the hallway, his hand coming up to rest on my shoulder with surprising gentleness. The contact sent awareness shooting through my entire system.
