Her mouth drops and her eyes widen for a moment. “A wild…what?”
“Very large reptile with huge claws, enormous teeth, and sharp points on top of his head. He fought me for my breakfast.”
“Do you mean an iguana?” she asks as she slides her flip-flops on and hurries to the ladder of the boat.
Nodding, I say, “A poisonous one. I'm certain of it based on his bright colouring. Quite possibly rabid based on his behaviour,” I add, gravely.
Folding her lips between her teeth, she nods, obviously trying not to laugh. “In that case, I should take you to the hospital straight away.”
“Thank you, yes. I’d say that’s in order. I definitely need stitches and likely a large series of shots. Plus, my thumb might be broken.” I hold my hand and show her my dangling thumb.
Emma gasps. “Yeah, pretty sure that’s broken. Give me a second. I’ll throw on some clothes and get the keys to the speedboat.” I watch as she makes her way to the cabin door, her hips swaying under the towel in which they’re wrapped. Lucky towel.
As I wait, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and try to pull myself together. I hear my father's voice in my mind:Be a man, Pierce.
I hobble over to the speedboat and get in, an immense sense of relief coming over me to get off my sore leg as I sit down. Emma reappears within seconds in a black t-shirt and some pink shorts that still offer a most lovely view in spite of her attempt at modesty. Imustbe delirious to be thinking about that right now.
“All right, let’s get you to the hospital,” she says, hopping down onto the dock and sprinting to the boat like one of those Ninja Warrior athlete people. She makes quick work of untying the boat and jumps in, firing up the ignition before she bothers to sit down. God, she’s impressive. Every heroine in every fantasy should be exactly like Emma Banks.
“Thank you for this. I appreciate your haste.” Closing my eyes, I sigh deeply, fear crawling through my veins as my hand and leg pulse. “I’m certain I’ve been poisoned. And if not, I may bleed out. The cuts on my hand are very deep. I may lose the use of it if we can’t get to a surgeon straight away.”
“I’ll go as fast as I can. You just try to stay calm,” she says, taking on the tone of a nursery school teacher, which I find oddly comforting. “You know, I doubt you’ve been poisoned actually. Salmonella, maybe, but that’s about it.”
“It’s rabies, I know it. The sudden fever and the sweating. It’s the only explanation,” I say, shaking my head solemnly.
“Well,” she says, tilting her head to the side thoughtfully. “Is it possible that it’s because we’re in the tropics, it’s 40°C outside, and you’ve just been on a long walk?” There's just a hint of a smirk fighting to get out, but she holds it in.
I stare at her for a second, a sense of indignance brushing aside my pain. “Oh, I see. You’re making fun of me.”
“No, no. Not at all. Just trying to help you calm down a bit, and perhaps present a more logical solution to your symptoms. Although I am just a chef, not a doctor, so the fact that I grew up out here probably doesn't mean as much as it would if I had gone to medical school.”
She’s making fun of me. “How far is the hospital?”
“Another fifteen minutes.”
“Please hurry.”
“I’ll have you there as fast as humanly possible,” she says, pushing the throttle to full.
My head jerks back with the force of it and I close my eyes, praying this is not the end.
* * *
Thirty minutes later, we’re sitting in the ER waiting room at San Filipe Hospital. Emma called ahead for a car to pick us up for the short drive here from the public dock.
I’m now drenched in sweat, nauseous, and terrified as I sit next to her in the brightly-lit room among the other patients. “I can’t believe they’re making me wait,” I mutter. “I’m going to die waiting for help.”
“You’re not going to die. I promise,” she says, patting me on the shoulder.
“Hey, aren’t you Pierce Davenport?” a woman asks, pointing at me from across the room.
I nod slightly and attempt a smile.
“Oh my God! I’m like the world’s biggest Crownie! Can I get a picture with you?” she asks, rushing over.Seriously? Now?I give her a pained look as I try to think of a graceful way to get out of this.
“Sorry, no photos. Hospital policy,” Emma says, authoritatively. “He’d normally love to, though.”
The woman’s shoulders drop and she pouts a little. “My husband and I have watched every episode ofClash of Crowns. He won’t believe I’ve met you.”
