“The Millers, the Torontos?” I pressed.
Georgie and Dr. Page exchanged, fast worried looks. He forced a smile. “I’m sure they’re fine. You’re doing well. However, we will keep you here for a few days and reassess from there. You must keep the mask on.” His brow crinkled as he lifted the chart, studying it.
“Oh, Amy, I was so worried,” Georgie said, grabbing my hand.
Swallowing, I tasted ash. I closed my eyes and an image scorched my mind, flames clawing at the world like the hell itself had risen.
“You’d better leave now, Georgie. She needs her rest,” Dr. Page said kindly.
Georgie adjusted the mask on my face, kissed my cheek, murmured she would be back later, and left.
“I’m sure they’re fine.”
Not, “They are fine.” Or, “Yes.”
“We lost her.”
Lost who? Me? Did death’s hand snatch hold of me? Did the nurses bring me back? But that hardly made sense. My injuries weren’t life threatening. My mind spun. I stared up at the white ceiling. Obi and Summer’s faces flashed before me. Those heads full of curls, their cheeky grins. Emotion scorched my eyes, blurring my vision.
The doctor slipped my chart on the end of the bed, then he moved to the side stand and handed me a tissue with a sympathetic smile.
Turning away, he said to someone outside the door. “Just a few minutes—she needs rest. And the mask stays on.”
I blinked, surprised to see Ethan standing in the doorway.
“Hey, Cinderella.” His voice was flatter than normal. He sat down on the seat beside the bed. His eyes were rimmed red, like smoke had stung them. Or he’d been crying.
My stomach sank.
I grabbed the mask, pulled it down, and rasped, “Are you alright, Ethan?”
He drew a deep breath and looked out the window, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. When he looked back, his blue eyes were dark lakes.
“Katrina and Robert passed away.”
I heard him, but my mind refused to register it. “What,” I stuttered.
He thrust a hand through his dark hair. “They’re gone,” he whispered.
The blood drained from my face. My mind whirled. The fire must have been huge. How much of Church Heights was left standing?
I fought to hold back tears. Ethan just lost his friends, and I needed to say something to comfort him. Finally, I strangled out, “Oh, Ethan. I’m so, so sorry. The fire?”
He shook his head. “Car accident.” The pain in his voice nearly broke me.
There was a long silence—I didn’t know what else to say. Words felt inadequate to the scale of loss. It was like trying to stick a Band-Aid over a fatal wound and expecting it to help.
I croaked out, “I can’t believe it.”
“Careful, Amy, if you keep using your sexy bed voice, I may start to think you’re hitting on me.” He smiled, but it didn’t go anywhere near his eyes. He reached out to put the mask back on. I clasped his hand in mine, stopping him.
Images flashed through my head, one after the other, like scenes from a movie that didn’t make any sense.
Ethan crying by a fireplace. His hand clutched around someone’s throat. Something sharp, glinting—a blade?Blood.There was blood everywhere.
I gasped and took my hand away. Whatever drugs they’d given me were playing tricks on my mind. Morphine, most likely. The same thing had happened after the car crash; the drugs had played havoc with my head. Maybe it was because of my ability to mentally record things, and something in my brain went haywire. Maybe it was part of a delusional disorder. I didn’t know, but sometimes images appeared as if they were real.
“Are you in pain?” Ethan leaning over me, frowning and worried. Worried about me. He’d just lost his friends, but his thoughts were on me.
