They touch my shoulders, my cheek, my wrists. Someone tries to lift me. It’s way too much.
“It’s okay,” someone murmurs. “We’ve got you. You’re safe now.”
Safe.
But the warmth beside me… that’s gone. That’s what safety feels like.
Someone’s hand gently presses against my cheek. “Sweetheart, we need to take a look at your injuries.”
I reach up and touch the slice on my cheek. “No, I’m okay. I just got winded, that’s all.”
Someone catches my hand gently. “We have to get you to the hospital, Violet. You’re bleeding. Let us help you.”
I crane my head toward where I can feel him, that huge presence now in the distance. The air already feels colder without him pressed against me.
“Please,” I whisper, not sure to who.
I swear I hear a howl in the distance. And then I’m being picked up.
“It’s okay. I can walk. You can put me down.” My cheeks sting with mortification. I can still walk.
The walk out of the woods is a blur of voices and steady hands guiding me. Every rustle of leaves makes me flinch. My ribs ache. My cheek throbs. My arms sting from a bunch of scratches. But all of it is drowned out by the hollow ache where that warmth used to be.
“Almost there,” someone says.
“Please, I don’t want to go to the hospital.”
Jenna squeezes my hand. “I know you don’t, but unfortunately, because it happened at the sanctuary, we have to take you. I’m sorry.”
I know Jenna is aware of my trauma associated with hospitals, so she wouldn’t make me go unless she didn’t have a choice herself. Still, that feeling of total helplessness descends like a wet, muggy blanket. They help me into a vehicle and buckle me in. The doors slam, the engine kicks to life, and my stomach sinks. Nothing good ever comes from going to the hospital. I lift my fingers to my trembling lip and get the scent of the guide dog on my hands. It smells woodsy and wild and… safe.
All I can think is, why did he leave? Did he run? Did they scare him off? Did they find him and keep him safe?
I clutch the seatbelt like it’s fur. I hope he’s okay.
Antiseptic overwhelms my nostrils the moment we walk into the ER. That and the cloying scent of fear and desperation disguised as hope. Voices are high-pitched and breathy, the pleading in them heavy in the space. Then there’s the doctors with their false optimism. Snippets of conversation:
“We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”
“Take these and you’ll feel better.”
“We’re optimistic you’ll make a full recovery.”
My heart races at the thought that they don’t always know that. I’m requested to get on a bed. Then it’s hands everywhere again, tools clicking. The unending questions.
“Dizziness?”
“Any numbness?”
“Pain scale from one to ten?”
“Hold still, sweetheart.”
“This cut needs flushing.”
“She’s lucky—this could have been much worse.”
There’s that word again. Lucky.
