Pain shot through my skull as I forced my eyes open, quickly closing them again with a groan. “It hurts.”
A deep voice growled out, “I’m gonna get a nurse.”
I frowned. “Hyde?”
“Yeah?”
“What are you doing here?” I asked, still unable to open my eyes.
I felt someone squeeze my arm. “Let me get you a nurse. We’ll talk when you’re feelin’ better.”
He released my arm and I felt weirdly bereft.
“Why isn’t she opening her eyes?” Leo demanded.
I licked my lips and tried to look at him, but everything hurt.
“I’m Dr. Lopez,” I heard a deep voice say, then fingers touched, and slightly lifted, my wrist, feeling my pulse. “I’m going to check you over, Ms. Walsh.”
“Okay.”
“I need everyone to clear the room. You may have one person in here if you’d like.”
“My dad, please.”
I heard movement and grimaced as I tried to open my eyes again.
“Why can’t I open my eyes?” I rasped.
“You have an extreme amount of swelling in your face, not to mention a pretty severe concussion. We’re monitoring everything to make sure you don’t have any bleeding or fluids building up around the brain.”
“Do I?”
“No. We’re very optimistic that you’re clear there.” He released my wrist. “But your eyes are swollen, so you may find it difficult to open them until the swelling goes down, but you have no damage to the actual eye, so you were very lucky.”
“Lucky that someone beat the hell out of her?” Dad growled.
“Daddy, I’m okay,” I whispered.
“I apologize,” the doctor said. “I didn’t mean to sound insensitive.”
“It’s fine, doctor,” I rasped.
“You had a very hard hit to your head and had some brain swelling, but that has resolved itself. You also have two broken ribs, which will heal on their own. The biggest concern was the fracture to your femoral shaft, which we fixed in surgery.”
“I had surgery?” I squeaked.
“You did,” he confirmed. “Textbook repair, so with physical therapy, you’ll make a full recovery. You are going to have to take things easy for six to eight weeks, however.”
“That’s a long time.”
“I’d really like you to take longer, but I understand you’re a bit of a workaholic.”
I sighed. “Guilty.”
“How’s your pain? On a scale from one to ten?”
“Eight,” I admitted.
