“Of course you will.” Natalie gave her a quick smile in return, then wrapped Sophy in a fierce tight hug intended, Sophy knew, to supply a boatload of encouragement and support. “You don’t still love him, do you?” Natalie asked.
Sophy pulled back and shook her head. “No,” she vowed. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t! “Absolutely not.”
They weren’t giving him any painkillers.
Which would be fine, George thought, though the pounding in his head was ferocious and moving his leg and elbow made him wince, if they would just let him sleep.
But they weren’t doing that, either. Every time he fell blessedly asleep they loomed over him, poking and prodding, talking in loud kindergarten-teacher voices, shining lights in his eyes, asking him his name, how old he was, who was the president.
How idiotic was that? He could barely remember his age or who the president was when he hadn’t just got run over by a truck.
If they’d ask him how to determine the speed of light or what the properties of black holes were, he could have answered in the blink of an eye. He could talk about that for hours—or he could have provided he was able to keep his eyes open long enough.
But no one asked him that.
They went away for a while, but then came back with more needles. They did scans, tutted and muttered, asked more of their endless questions, always looking at him expectantly, then furrowed their brows, worried, when he couldn’t remember if he was thirty-four or thirty-five.
Who the hell cared?
Apparently they did.
“What month is it?” he demanded. His birthday was in November.
They looked askance when he asked them questions.
“He doesn’t know what month it is,” one murmured and made quick urgent notes on her laptop.
“Doesn’t matter,” George muttered irritably. “Is Jeremy all right?”
That was what mattered right now. That was what he saw whenever his eyes were closed—his little four-year-old dark-haired neighbor darting into the street to chase after his ball. That and—out of the corner of his eye—the truck barreling down on him.
The memory still made his breath catch. “How’s Jeremy?’ George demanded again.
“He’s fine. Barely a scratch,” the doctor said, shining a light in George’s eyes. “Already gone home. Much better off than you. Hold still and open your eyes, George, damn it.”
Ordinarily, George figured, Sam Harlowe probably had more patience with his patients. But he and Sam went back to grade school. Now Sam gripped George’s chin in firm fingers and shone his light again in George’s eyes again. It sent his head pounding through the roof and made him grit his teeth.
“As long as Jeremy’s okay,” he said through them. As soon as Sam let go of his jaw, George lay back against the pillows and deliberately shut his eyes.
“Fine. Be an ass,” Sam said gruffly. “But you’re going to stay right here and you’re going to rest. Check on him regularly,” Sam commanded the nurse. “Keep me posted on any change. The next twenty-four hours are critical.”
George’s eyes flicked open again. “I thought you said he was all right.”
“He is. The jury’s still out on you,” Sam told him gruffly. “I’ll be back.”
As that sounded more like a threat than a promise, George wanted to say he wouldn’t be here, but by the time he mustered his wits, Sam was long gone.
Annoyed, George glared after him. Then he fixed his gaze on the nurse. “You can leave, too,” he told her irritably. He’d had enough questions. Besides, his head hurt less if he shut his eyes. So he did.
He may have even slept because the next thing he knew there was a new nurse pestering him.
“So, how old are you, George?” she asked him.
George squinted at her. “Too old to be playing games. When can I go home?”
“When you’ve played our games,” the nurse said drily.
He cracked a smile at that. “I’m going to be thirty-five. It’s October. I had oatmeal for breakfast this morning. Unless it’s tomorrow already.”
“It is,” she told him.
“Then I can go home.”
“Not until Dr. Harlowe agrees.” She didn’t look up while she checked his blood pressure. When she finished she said, “I understand you’re a hero.”
George squinted at her. “Not likely.”
“You didn’t save a boy’s life?”
“I knocked him across the street.”
“So he wouldn’t get killed by a truck,” the nurse said. “That qualifies as ‘saving’ in my book. I hear he just got a few scrapes and bruises.”
“Which is what I’ve got,” George pointed out, about to nod toward the ones visible on his arm. “So I should be able to go home, too.”
“And you will,” she said. “But head injuries can be serious.”
Finally, blessedly, she—and all her persistent colleagues—left him alone. As the hours wore on eventually the hospital noises quieted. The rattle of carts in the halls diminished. Even the beeps and the clicks seemed to fade. Not the drumming in his head, though. God, it was ceaseless.
Every time he drifted off, he moved. It hurt. He shifted. Found a spot it wasn’t quite so bad. Slept. And then they woke him again. When he did sleep it was restlessly. Images, dreams, memories of Jeremy haunted his dreams. So did ones of the truck. So did the grateful, still stricken faces of Jeremy’s parents.
“We might have lost him,” Jeremy’s mother, Grace, had sobbed at his bedside earlier.
And his father, Philip, had just squeezed George’s hand in his as he’d said over and over, “You have no idea.”
Not true. George had a very good idea. There were other memories and images mingling with those of Jeremy. Memories of a baby, tiny and dark-haired. A first smile. Petalsoft skin. Trusting eyes.
She was Jeremy’s age now. Old enough to run into a street the same way Jeremy had … He tried not to think about it. Tried not to think about her. It made his throat ache and his eyes burn. He shut them once more and tried desperately to fall asleep.
He didn’t know how much sleep he finally got. His head was still pounding when the first glimmers of dawn filtered in through the window.
He’d heard footsteps come into the room earlier. There had been the sound of a nurse’s voice speaking quietly, another low murmured response, then the sound of the feet of a chair being moved.
He hadn’t opened his eyes. Had deliberately ignored it all.
All he’d thought was, please God they would go away without poking him or talking to him again. He didn’t want to be poked. He didn’t want to be civil.
He wanted to go back to sleep—but this time he didn’t want the memories to come with it. The nurse left. The conversation stopped. Yet somehow he didn’t think he was alone.
Was that Sam who’d come in? Was he standing there now, staring down at him in silence?
It was the sort of juvenile nonsensical thing they’d done as kids to try to psych the other out. Surely Sam had grown out of it by now.
George shifted—and winced as he tried to roll onto his side. His shoulder hurt like hell. Every muscle in his body protested. If Sam thought this was funny …
George flicked