“She was involved in a car accident and is currently in the Emergency Operating Room. We need consent forms signed. Can you come immediately?”
The phone slips from my hand onto the counter and I stumble until my back hits the fridge, my vision blurring while my heart pounds recklessly in my chest.
“Gabriel?” Zale shouts, running over to me.
But all I can hear is the doctor repeatedly calling out for me, so I point to the phone and he runs over, pressing it to his ear.
“Hello? Is Zalea okay?” he asks. “Yes, I’m her brother. Is she alive?”
I slide to the ground, struggling to get enough air in my lungs.
“We’re on our way,” he says, ending the call and sliding both phones into his pocket before kneeling in front of me.
“Gabriel,” he says firmly, arms on my shoulders. “Look at me.”
I force myself to look at him, my eyes wide with panic as I struggle to breathe, and Zale does something I don’t expect.
He slaps me.
Hard.
Hard enough to knock the panic straight out of me.
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly, eyeing me as if I might hit him back. “But now isn’t the time for a panic attack. We have to get to that hospital quickly, and I need you to go back to doing your Formula One style driving. Okay?”
I nod, allowing him to help me to my feet as my chest heaves, before I snatch the rental key from the entrance table and run out with him.
Surprisingly, I don’t get pulled over as we speed to the hospital, following the GPS directions. It’s about forty minutes from the apartment, and on the way there we pass my wrecked convertible on the side of the road as it’s being attached to a tow truck.
The entire front end is caved in and the passenger side is flattened like paper. Whatever hit her was big.
“Holy shit,” Zale whispers as we pass it, and when he turns back to face the front I don’t miss the tremble that’s started to wrack his body.
“She’s okay,” I say, gripping the wheel so tight my knuckles ache. “She has to be.”
Hospital Santa Violacomes into view ahead of us and we barely get the car into park before we’re running inside.
“Zalea Evans,” I choke out at the front desk.
The woman behind the desk stares at me, confusion clouding her face as she says something in Italian that I don’t understand, and panic claws its way back up my throat.
“Please,” I manage. “She was just in a car accident.”
Before I lose what little control I have left, a woman in a white coat approaches us. My eyes drop instantly to the name stitched over her chest.
Dr. Ricci.
“Hi, how may I help you?” she asks.
“I think I was talking to you earlier,” I say. “My girlfriend, Zalea, was in a car accident.”
“You made it,” she says, relieved. “Please, come with me.”
She leads us down a hallway where we pass curtained bays, nurses moving quickly, and families sitting in stiff chairs with hollow expressions.
“Is she awake?” Zale asks beside me, his voice tight.
“She is under anesthesia,” Dr. Ricci replies. “There was internal bleeding, but we are controlling it.”
