I took the band from her and wrapped it around my wrist. “You ever need a favor, Hannah, you come down to Atlantic City and ask for Jersey Boy,” I said. “Someone will point you in my direction.”
She snorted. “Sure,” she said. “I’ll tell my mom I made friends with a biker today. She’ll be thrilled.”
“Tell her I was a perfect gentleman,” I said.
Hannah shook her head.
The elevator ride up felt too slow. Everywhere I looked there were signs. Radiation this way. Oncology. Pediatrics. Pastoral Care. Broken people and the people who tried to put them back together, all stacked like boxes in a warehouse.
Fourth floor opened into a quieter wing. The noises changed. Less chatter. More beeping. Owning that steady heart monitor rhythm. Machines humming. A nurse at the station glanced up, took in the wrist band, the cut, and then went back to her chart. Someone moaned softly behind a door. Somewhere else, a TV droned with the sound turned down low.
I followed the numbers until I found 417B.
For a second, I just stood in the doorway and watched him.
Miami lay on the bed, pale under the bruises. There were more bandages than I wanted to see. One leg elevated, wrapped from mid-thigh to ankle. One arm in a light cast and strapped across his chest. Tubes snaked from his hand, under the blankets. His chest rose and fell in small, careful breaths.
He looked smaller.That hurt more than anything.
I stepped inside. The air in the room felt colder than the hall. There was a chair against the wall. I ignored it and went straight to his bedside.
“Hey, sunshine,” I said quietly. “You picked a hell of a way to get some time off.”
No response. Only the beeping of the monitors.
I glanced at the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. Kiehls, George. Male. Age. Vital signs. Then the notes.
Broken leg, compound but stabilized. Dislocated arm. Fracture to the skull, small but real. Bruised ribs. Bruised lung. Internal bleeding treated in surgery. No severe organ damage.
“Stubborn bastard,” I muttered. “Couldn’t even do dying properly. Had to half-ass that too.”
My chest got tight again. I leaned in closer, one hand on the rail, the other brushing a lock of hair away from his forehead.
“You scared the shit out of us,” I said. “Quinn is about ready to burn the whole world down. Blackjack is snarling at everyone. Priest has been punching walls. You had better be hearing this, because if I’m pouring my heart out to a guy who cannot hear me, I’m never living it down.”
The corner of his mouth twitched.
I froze.
“Evan,” he rasped. His voice was rough sandpaper, barely there.
Relief hit so hard I thought my knees might go out. I leaned over him more. “Yeah, it’s me,” I said. “Whoelse would it be, you dramatic fuck?”
His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then sharpened enough to find my face. For a second there was confusion, then recognition, then something like amusement.
“You… crying?” he asked. Every word seemed to cost him.
“I’m not crying,” I lied. My eyes burned. “I’m just allergic to seeing you this ugly.”
He chuckled. It turned into a wince as pain shot through him. He sucked air, face contorting.
“Don’t,” I said sharply. “Laughing is banned. Breathing only. Quietly.”
His gaze slid to the doorway, then back to me. Something in his eyes changed. The amusement drained, replaced by something I had never seen on his face before.
Fear.
His hand twitched weakly against the sheets. “Door,” he whispered. “Close the door.”
