Page 129 of Falling Into Forever
“If Dante dies, what will I keep with me?”
No one answers. It’s not a fair question.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes.
* * *
“Bullet ricocheted.”
“Accident.”
“Surgery.”
“Internal bleeding.”
“The next three days are critical.”
“Can I see him?” I ask. I’m standing in the middle of a circle where everyone else is a giant, and I’m a kid trying to sit at the grown-up’s table.
The doctor looks at Blake, then back at me. “Of course, Mrs. Thompson. We don’t normally allow—”
“Take her to her husband,” Blake interrupts.
“Right. Of course.”
“What are you? The mafia?” Grady mutters.
“Worse,” Blake says. “I’m a Kingston.”
“Here’s your phone, Sass.” Ainsley pushes it into my hand. “We’ll be right here. Right. Here. If you need anything at all. Okay?”
I finally take in the scene around me. Grady has an arm around Lena, who holds an abnormally still Poppy. Blake stands like a sentinel. Then there’s Ainsley. Who watches out for her?
“I’ll keep an eye on Ainsley, okay?” Blake promises, and I allow the doctor to take me by the arm and lead me down the hallway.
Antiseptic hits my nostrils, and a wave of nausea washes over me. An overhead fluorescent bulb flickers like an old-school horror movie, and I suppose that’s fitting. This is the stuff my nightmares are made of.
Why does everything beep in hospitals?
“Mrs. Thompson?” the worried doctor says while gently grasping my arm. Shit. How many times has he said my name? “This must be terrifying, so I want to prepare you. He’s lost a lot of blood. The bullet—”
“Is he going to die?” It’s a little surprising how steady my voice sounds.
The doctor’s face softens. Is Ainsley going to deliver news like this? How the hell will she be able to do it?
“It’s too soon to tell, I’m sorry. We’d like him to gain consciousness within seventy-two hours, though.”
“And if he doesn’t?”
The doctor places a hand on my shoulder I think he means to be comforting, but it makes my skin crawl like there are millions of spiders feasting on my arm hair.
“If he doesn’t, the rate of survival is severely lowered. I’m sorry, Mrs. Thompson. We’re giving him the very best care.”
Translation, even our best isn’t a guarantee.
The doctor opens the door, and I step inside.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
