I’m coming, Floyd.
I’m coming home.
Chapter Fourteen
~ Floyd ~
First thing back was the sound: a relentless, nasal beep, perfectly timed to the pound behind my eyes. The second thing was pain—deep, old, the kind that blooms slow and then sharpens to a pinpoint, radiating from my left temple down into my jaw, curling along the ribs like a wire pulled too tight. The third thing was the taste: metal and antiseptic, a coppery tinge at the back of my tongue, as if someone had been bleaching the inside of my mouth.
I opened my eyes. Or, more accurately, I tried. One eyelid obeyed; the other seemed to be on strike, held hostage by swelling and a tape butterfly I could already feel itching to tear loose.
The ceiling above me was off-white, pocked with the suspicious brown stains only hospitals and public restrooms managed to cultivate. The walls were that shade of institutional blue that promised comfort and delivered nothing. The stink of it—disinfectant, ancient vinyl, recycled air—made me want to retch, but my stomach vetoed the motion.
I took stock, like I always did. Left hand, functional but IV’d, the line taped to my arm with more adhesive than a crime scene. Right hand, less functional: fingers swollen, two knuckles already purpling. Bandage above the wrist. I flexed it, and a bolt of agony reminded me that there was still plenty of nerve left to burn. I glanced down. My torso was wrapped tight, mummy-style, the sheets tented over an uneven terrain that probably mapped out every bad decision I’d ever made.
I tried to sit up, but the world spun—fast, ugly, a carousel from hell. I froze until the room stopped tilting, then inhaled slow, counting the seconds. I needed a fix, something to anchorme, so I cataloged the beeps, the hisses, the muffled voices on the other side of a half-drawn curtain.
“Sheriff Hardesty?” The voice was female, uncertain, carrying that practiced nurse’s lilt: equal parts forced cheer and threat of consequences. “If you’re awake, you’re going to want to stay still. You took quite a hit.”
I turned my head. The nurse stood just inside the curtain, hands behind her back, the kind of posture you use to keep a safe distance from the unpredictable. She was young, but had the eyes of someone who’d seen a lot more than she’d signed up for. I tried to speak. The sound that came out was closer to a cough, but she seemed satisfied.
“Can you tell me your name?” she asked.
I swallowed, wincing at the rawness in my throat. “Hardesty. Floyd. Sheriff.” My voice didn’t sound right. Maybe it never had.
She nodded, then stepped closer, flashing a penlight in my eye. “Do you know what year it is?”
“2026,” I said. Then: “Don’t tell me I missed New Year’s.”
She smiled, like it was cute I was awake and already a pain in the ass. “It’s Tuesday. You were admitted early this morning. Can you tell me what happened?”
The memories came in chunks, each jagged and out of order: the call from dispatch, the smell of fresh paint and panic, the scrawny figure in the hoodie, the blur of fists and the taste of my own blood. Then the tattoo shop, Ransom’s art—slashed, violated, ruined. Something twisted in my chest, harder than any of the physical pain.
I licked my lips. “Was there… vandalism? At Inked Rebellion?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Your deputy reported it. You apprehended the suspect before you—” Her eyes flicked to my chart, then back to me. “Before you lost consciousness.”
I tried to sit up again. This time, I managed a few inches before the nurse’s hand was on my shoulder, gentle but unyielding. “Slow down. You’ve got a pretty significant concussion, and the doctors want you immobile until they can run a few more tests.”
My head pulsed, but I forced the words out. “Is the shop okay?”
She glanced away. “The police report said a lot of property damage. They’re still collecting evidence.”
I could see it, even through the haze: Ransom’s work, defaced with angry, black lines; his pride, shredded and splayed out for the world to mock. I’d been three weeks without him, and already I’d let his one safe space get torn apart by a petty little nothing. I gripped the edge of the sheets, the pain of the movement a good distraction.
“Did you catch the bastard?” I asked.
She shook her head, a flicker of dissatisfaction in her eyes. “Not yet, but they’re looking for him.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow. The pulse monitor beeped faster for a second, then stabilized. The nurse adjusted the IV, then took a step back. “The doctor will be in to see you soon. Is there anyone you want us to call?”
For a split second, I wanted to say no. I wanted to say there was no one left. Instead, the truth came out, soft and ugly: “Already called?”
She hesitated. “Your emergency contact has been notified. He said he’s on his way.”
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to that one word:He. I didn’t list any male family, not in the last five years. There was only one he in my paperwork, and he was the reason I’d even survived the last three years of this job.
I tried to process what that meant. Had the department called Ransom? Had Latham? Would Ransom even come, after the last words we’d exchanged?
