“Yes,” she tried to say. Her throat didn’t cooperate. She swallowed, concentrating on him. Blessedly, like a camera lens finding focus, he slowly became clearer. Not totally clear. But close.
He was near. Standing next to her bed? In a ... hospital room? Meadow, Bridget, Robbie, and June were here, too. As well as strangers ... medical staff.
Where had the island gone? Dread trickled into her groggy thoughts.
Concentrate on Luke.He didn’t scare her. He calmed her.
Luke leaned closer, his hazel eyes glowing with intensity. His dark hair was tousled, his face unshaven. The hawkish features that always reminded her of a pirate prince had aged since the last time she’d seen him. Beneath his gray T-shirt, his powerful shoulders held tension.
Had she been drugged? She felt drugged. Exhausted. Her head ached, and there was a faint ringing in her ears. But this ... this view of him was the best of her life. A sound halfway between a sob and a laugh escaped her. “Luke,” she said hoarsely.
“Finley.” He spoke her name like a prayer.
“Hi,” she said to the rest of them.
“Are you okay?” Meadow asked.
“I’m great,” she lied. Luke was holding her hand. When had he taken hold of her hand? “How are my animals?”
“They’re fine,” Bridget said.
“I’m Dr. Ellis,” said a middle-aged man with gelled blond hair. He stood on the side of the bed opposite Luke. “Can you tell me your name?”
“Finley Sutherland.”
He asked if she knew what year it was. She did.
“What month is it?” Dr. Ellis asked.
“March.”
Memories slotted into place, like the cells of a spreadsheet filling one by one. She remembered the last walk she and Luke had gone on with the shelter dogs. How the spring sun had danced through new green leaves as he’d kissed her. “Is it still March?”
“It was when you were last conscious,” the doctor answered. “It’s now April first. You’ve been unconscious for four days.”
She’d been unconscious?For four days?
“Do you know who this is?” He indicated her relatives.
“Uncle Robbie and Aunt June.”
“Very good,” the doctor said. “And these people?”
“Meadow and Bridget.”
“Excellent,” the doctor said. “Can you move your arms?”
She could, though they felt like they weighed twice as much as they should.
“And your legs?” he asked.
She moved her legs. “What happened to me?”
“You sustained a mild traumatic brain injury,” the doctor said, “but you’re doing very well.”
God, she prayed.
God. That one word was the longest prayer she had the ability to form. “How—how can an injury be both mild and traumatic?” she asked Luke.
