Just whimpers again.
That small, broken sound that destroys me.
"We're in," Reynolds announces, returning. "They'll take her now. Back entrance, private room. Cash up front, no records."
"Let's move."
The hospital is a blur.
White walls.
Fluorescent lights.
Hushed voices and the beep of machines.
They take her for the CT scan.
I have to wait outside.
Those fifteen minutes are the longest of my life.
I pace.
Can't sit still.
Can't think about anything except her.
Mom sits in a plastic chair, watching me with worried eyes.
"You need to sit down," she says. "You're going to tear something."
"I'm fine."
"You're not fine. You're running on adrenaline and you had a knife wound a few weeks ago."
"I said I'm fine."
She doesn't push, just watches me with those concerned eyes of hers.
Finally—finally—the radiologist emerges.
"Good news," he says immediately. "No internal bleeding. Some significant bruising to the liver and kidneys, but nothing that requires surgery. She's lucky."
Lucky.
She's beaten and bloody and traumatized and he calls it lucky.
But he's right.
It could've been worse.
It could've been so much worse.
"We've sutured the arm wound and bandaged the ribs. She's stable enough to move." He glances at Reynolds. "I assume you want to take her somewhere private?"
"Yes. Thank you."
"Consider my debt paid." The radiologist nods once, then disappears back through the doors.
