A fire alarm starts to shriek. Because of course it does. That’s what happens when you introduce naked flame into a hospital waiting room.
“Thehospital?” Andrew’s voice goes up an octave in the space of two words.
“I’ve really got to go. Talk later.”
I end the call and lunge immediately toward the nearest fire extinguisher.
Billy, meanwhile, seizes the offending flaming cake and steps back, promptly tripping over a wheelchair footrest and launching the cake in a perfect arc across the orange zone.
It lands in a potted plant, which turns out to be artificial and extremely flammable.
Because apparently nothing sayshealing environmentlike plastic ferns that melt on contact.
Luckily, I manage to yank the extinguisher off the wall. I pull the pin like I’m in some sort of action movie and blast the hand sanitizer puddle.
The foam shoots out with way more force than anticipated. I’m immediately thrown off balance, spraying a Jackson Pollock of fire retardant across the orange zone while pivoting like a drunk ballet dancer.
When I finally regain my balance, I redirect my foam assault toward the second lot of flames, which have risen from the potted plant and are now curling their way up aKnow Your Rights as an NHS Patientposter.
The flames die. The alarm keeps shrieking. Everyone in the nearby vicinity is covered in foam.
Archie starts laughing. Not a chuckle, but full-body, tears-streaming laughter while keeping his ankle elevated on a foam-covered chair.
“This birthday keeps getting better and better,” he wheezes.
Chapter Four
Archie
I’m covered in foam, sitting in a wheelchair that looks like it survived a car wash explosion, my ankle’s throbbing in time with the still-shrieking fire alarm, and I’m fairly sure there’s birthday cake frosting in my ear to go along with the maple syrup. The orange zone looks like someone hosted a foam party in hell’s waiting room, and the triage nurse is glaring at us.
But I’m laughing. Because what else can you do at this point?
I’ve learned that sometimes life is so ridiculous that you either find the humor or you drown in the unfairness of it all. And drowning isn’t really my style. I look for the punchline even when the joke is on me.
Besides, if you’re laughing, people don’t ask if you’re okay. They just assume you are. Which is extremely convenient sometimes.
Leo blinks down at me with an expression of complete bewilderment, like he can’t compute why someone covered in fire retardant with a broken ankle is laughing. His tie is askew and there’s foam in his hair, which somehow makes him look more human and, unfortunately, more attractive.
I can’t help replaying how he looked when he brandished the fire extinguisher. The way he took complete control, jaw set withintense focus. His dress shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he swept the extinguisher side to side, biceps visible even through the expensive fabric. He looked like a Brooks Brothers ad moonlighting as an action hero.
So, I have a competency kink. Sue me.
It appears I’m developing a bit of a crush on the guy in the three-piece suit who assaulted me with syrup and then rescued everyone from the Great Birthday Inferno. That’s an interesting twist.
“Are you okay?” Leo directs his attention to me now, his face creasing in concern.
I’m not sure if he’s worried about my ankle having been bumped in the chaos or whether I’ve lost my mind because I’m laughing.
“I’m fine,” I say.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t think lighting the candles through,” Billy says morosely. Poor Billy. His heart is always in the right place, but it’s not the first time his execution hasn’t quite gone to plan.
“It’s okay. I’ll definitely never forget this birthday,” I say.
There’s a flurry of activity as NHS staff converge on us en masse.
What follows is a spectacular display of British bureaucracy in action. We’re shepherded away from the orange zone to the green zone.
