The second man steps forward, slightly more subdued. Brown hair, grounded energy, a quiet kind of confidence. “How’s he doing?”
“Stable,” I say, though I’m a little concerned about the vein in Reid’s temple now. “Still groggy from the anesthetic, but no complications.”
“Perfect,” says Chase, gently tying the turtle balloon to the bed rail. “Just gonna leave this little guy right here.”
“I hate you.”
“I’ve named him Franklin.”
Reid’s glare could peel paint. “Untie it.”
“Nope.”
One of the other two leans toward me with a stage whisper. “He’s got a turtle phobia. It’s a thing.”
“Ahh,” I manage, though it doesn’t really sum up the many questions in my head. “I see.”
The last one of them pats Reid’s arm solemnly as though he’s back from a battle. “You made it, buddy.”
I step back as they swarm the bed, checking him over like he’s a broken toy and making way too much noise for a hospital ward.
“Is this the surgeon we should be thanking?” one asks, turning to me. “Dr. Moreno?”
“No,” Reid says, eyes drifting closed again. “She’s better.”
I arch a brow.
Chase beams. “Ahh, so you’reDr. Doom.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“That’s what he calls you. Apparently, you terrify him.”
“Only a little,” Reid mumbles.
“Anyway.” The broodiest one of them claps him on the shoulder way too hard, then turns to me. “Thanks for not letting him die.”
“My pleasure.” I incline my head. “So you guys are…?”
“Logan.”
“Jake.”
“Chase.”
“Eli.”
They all speak at once.
“The only thing you need to know about them,” Reid adds, “is they’re all annoying fuckers.”
“We contain multitudes, and you love us.” Chase is already unwrapping a meatball sub he somehow smuggled in, dripping sauce on every available surface. “So he’s still gonna be able to skate, yeah?”
“He just got out of surgery.” I give him a flat look. “And you’re dripping sauce on his chart.”
“Enhances the flavor,” he says.
“I don’t even want to know what that means,” I mutter.
