He and Lizette rose. “I’ll be waiting right here.” She hugged him hard, her breasts like lead weights against his. “Everything will be fine—”
“You have to leave,” said the nurse.
“What? I can’t just sit here?” Lizette said.
“I thought my emergency contact was allowed—” Emmett began.
“The treatment is proprietary. We’ll call you when the patient is ready to be picked up.” The nurse’s stare was glassy and intense, her lips glossy and very slightly red. “Emmett Truesdale?” she repeated. “We’re ready for you now.”
“I’m right here.”
“I don’t like this,” Lizette said.
“It’s fine. Just go home, I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll find somewhere nearby. I want to stay close until I know you’re okay.” She gave him another hug, one eye still trained on the nurse. “Love you.”
“Love you.”
As she finally escaped through the sliding doors, Emmett felt a sudden urge to run after her. His heartbeat quickened. All the nervousness he’d pushed off until this moment rolled back now like an ocean swell, submerging him in dark, rushing terror. The only way out was to submit to it, let it chew him up and spit him out.
He turned to the nurse.
Her smile was fixed, anemic. “Emmett Truesdale? We’re ready for you now.”
In the exam room, the pre-op preparations had the rushed, destabilizing feeling of being shunted through airport security. Brusque instructions. Grim expressions. Authority he dared not question.
Take your clothes off. Put this on. Sit down. Give me your arm. No one paused to explain what was happening, no one cared if he understood.
The nurse checked his blood pressure, his heart rate, the stethoscope biting cold against his chest. What’s going to happen? What’s that needle for? No answer. The Black, modelesque anesthesiologist—Emmett knew this only by the title listed on her name badge—took his arm and laid it flat. A jab—no warning, no apology. He cried out, clenching the edge of the hospital bed, then drifted. The drugs were already working through him, drip-dripping through the IV, coating his anxiety in sweet, syrupy fatigue. He blinked in and out of consciousness.
Next thing he knew, someone was pushing his hospital bed out ofthe room. Where were they going? Was it already time? Emmett couldn’t speak, incapacitated but awake. Shouldn’t he be asleep by now?
They barreled down a hall of open doorways, a scene of horror through each one. A patient screaming and ripping an IV out of her arm (sharp turn). A man biting a nurse’s shoulder as she restrained him, drawing blood (sharp turn).
Imagining it. He had to be. His perception addled by the drugs.
An elevator swallowed them, then bore them up.
The temperature rose, as if they weren’t rising but plummeting beyond the basement level, down toward the earth’s molten core. Sweat dribbled from Emmett’s temples, drenched his armpits. The wordinfernalflashed dully across his mind.
The doors slid open.
The room before them was dark, cave-like, windows blacked out. Silent.
Slowly the nurse pushed forward, wheels stuttering out a high-pitched squeal.
She delivered him to a spotlit operating table surrounded by a masked surgical team. His nightmare willed into stark, gut-churning reality. He tried to object as they transferred him to the table, but he couldn’t form words.
“The patient’s still awake,” said the male surgeon to the anesthesiologist. “How many times have I told you, these big ones need more juice.”
“I’ll take him back—”
“Forget it. Gas and local are good enough. They never remember much anyway.”
A plastic mask like on Emmett’s CPAP closed over his nose, pumping the sedative straight to his brain. The fog around him thickened. Hands rolled him onto his side.
The prick of the needle was a dim, faraway concern. A warm throb bloomed across his hip.
