Dr.Fallows, according to his badge.
He's older than the others, maybe fifty, with kind eyes that have seen too much.He moves with the careful efficiency of someone who's delivered bad news more times than he can count.
"How are you feeling today, Nate?"He asks, pulling up my chart on his tablet.
I don't answer.
Haven't spoken to anyone in four days.
What's the point?
Words can't bring Jake back and they definitely can't undo what happened.
He checks my vitals, examines the healing wound on my stomach, makes notes.All the usual shit.
I keep counting ceiling tiles, trying to lose myself in the mindless repetition.
One thousand and forty-eight.One thousand and forty-nine.
"Your blood work is improving," he says, setting the tablet aside."The fentanyl is clearing your system, though you'll continue to experience withdrawal symptoms for another week or two.The stab wound is healing well, no signs of infection.And your lungs are clearing up nicely from the smoke inhalation."
He pauses, studying me with those too-knowing eyes.
"You're lucky to be alive, Nate."
Something bitter must flash across my face because he immediately holds up a hand.
"I know," he says quietly."I know that doesn't feel like luck right now.I can see you're struggling.Survivor's guilt is common in situations like this.But you need to understand—there was nothing you could have done to save your brother."
Bullshit.
The word screams in my head, but I don't give it voice.
I should have been faster.
Should have seen it coming.
Should have?—
"You'd just been injected with a potentially lethal dose of fentanyl," Dr.Fallows continues, reading the anger in my expression."You were barely conscious when your friends found you and barely alive by the time the paramedics got to you.You had a knife wound that nearly killed you.What exactly do you think you could have done?"
I turn away from him, back to the ceiling tiles.
One thousand and fifty.One thousand and fifty-one.
But his words dig under my skin like splinters.
"Jake made it to the hospital," he says gently."He was only just holding on by a miracle when they brought him in.I can see you thinking about that—about how if you'd been there, if you'd been able to help..."
One thousand and fifty-two, one thousand and fifty-three, one thousand?—
"Your bloodstream was poisoned," Dr.Fallows says, as if he's reading my thoughts."We couldn't use anything from you for at least seventy-two hours even if we could have done anything to save him..."He trails off, and I stop counting because there is something in his tone that makes me look at him.
Really look.
There's something he's not saying.
His jaw is tight, like he's holding back words that want to spill out.
