“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
“His name’s Asher,” Micah said.
“Asher, try not to move. First, we’re going to put a brace around your neck. Then we’re going to roll you onto a backboard and load you onto a stretcher so we can get you to the hospital. Try to keep your eyes open.”
My eyes fluttered open and I caught sight of Micah’s worried face before they closed again. The next thing I knew, I was in an ambulance that was screaming toward the hospital, an IV in my right arm. Distantly, I heard the EMTs discussing what was wrong with me. They said things like “likely dislocated” and “concussion” and some other things my brain refused to understand. I heard them call out the names of medications. The EMT sitting beside me spoke soothingly, repeating that I’d be okay, that we were almost there, that I just needed to hold on a little longer, and to try and keep my eyes open and stay awake. That last part was futile. I couldn’t have kept my eyes open if my life had depended on it.
A few minutes later, we pulled into what I assumed was the ambulance bay at the Port Grandlin hospital. The bright lights hurt my eyes, so I closed them tighter as they lowered the stretcher to the ground and wheeled me into an emergency room. The sharp scent of antiseptic burned my nostrils as Istruggled to breathe and I tasted blood on my tongue. My stomach churned and I wondered vaguely if I was going to throw up.
Someone pried my eyelids open and I tried to turn my head away, but things hurt too much. I was in and out of consciousness, and their words washed over me like waves.
“Pupils are dilated and reactive.”
“We need to get a CT scan and some X-rays.”
My stomach churned with anxiety. Maybe it was the meds they were pumping me with. Either way, nausea roiled through me. After a few more minutes of work in the ER, I was wheeled down the hall and up to imaging. For some reason, with my eyes closed tight, Micah’s face popped up in my mind.
And then I was out again.
Chapter 8 - Micah
Ipaced the waiting room, panic weighing on me like a blanket, pressing down on my shoulders and tightening my back. I walked the length of the room, down and back, anxious to hear news from the doctors, anything at all. Terrible thoughts raced through my mind—would he be okay? How badly was he injured? What was taking so long? What if—?
I tried to distract myself. I counted the tiles on the ceiling. I counted the tiles on the floor. I made an attempt to watch the news blaring through the TV. Nothing helped. My stomach churned at the possibilities. I checked the clock at what felt like every hour to find that it had only been a few minutes since I’d last looked. Eventually, I collapsed into a chair and tapped my foot rapidly.
After what felt like a full eternity, a woman in scrubs and a lab coat pushed through the double doors separating the ER from the waiting room. “Mr. Pollard?”
I jumped up from the seat. “That’s me.”
She smiled reassuringly. “I’m Dr. Fenton. I’ve just come from working with Asher Morris.”
“How is he?”
“Let’s have a seat.” She gestured toward a chair. Once I was sitting, she took a slow breath and began to explain. “Mr. Morris had quite the fall. He suffered a grade two concussion, a dislocated shoulder, and his ribs are pretty bruised. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation.”
“Is he going to be okay?”
“He should be fine, but his healing time might be slow. He’ll need help doing basic tasks for a while. The shoulder will take at least several weeks to begin to heal and the ribs will likely hinder his daily activities. He’ll need physical therapy for the shoulder. Do you know if Mr. Morris has anyone to help him at home?”
I shook my head. “I don’t think he does. But I don’t know for sure.”
“Well, we’re recommending that he go home with someone to support him. He should avoid strenuous activities for a while, including lifting, to avoid exacerbating the injury, and he may need to take time off from work while he heals.”
I swallowed hard and nodded. “That’s going to be tough. He’s a carpenter.”
“Well, if he doesn’t take it easy, he risks re-injuring himself, and then he’s really going to have to take time off of work. It could mean the difference between rest and surgery.”
I hesitated for a moment before speaking again. “Can I see him?”
“Of course. He’s a little groggy from the pain meds, but he’s awake. Let us get him settled into a room and a nurse will come get you when it’s time. In the meantime, he asked me to give you the contact information for his parents. They’re out of town, he said.” She held out a slip of paper with a phone number on it, written in shaky handwriting.
“Perfect, thank you.” I took the paper and folded it up. “Is there anything else I need to know?”
Dr. Fenton shook her head. “I think that covers it for now. We’ll have more thorough instructions for you at discharge tomorrow. I’ll go get him into a room and come get you as soon as he’s in.”
“Thanks.”
Dr. Fenton stood and nodded at me before heading back through the double doors she came from. As soon as she disappeared, I unfolded the paper and dialed Asher’s parents. A few moments later, his mom answered.
