“Hope’s responsive. Memory looks good. Swelling’s down.”
A clipboard shifts. Paper rustles.
“No brain injury runs the same course. Recovery changes case by case. Rest matters a lot. Physical therapy. Counseling. Follow-up appointments. The course of healing is to stay on top of symptoms and watch for setbacks.”
Symptoms. Counseling. Setbacks.
Each word lodges somewhere ugly.
When do I get my life back?
I crack my eyes open a sliver and catch the shape of Alek near the foot of the bed. He stands with his shoulders squared, hands in his pockets, listening with complete focus. No pacing. No fidgeting. No sign he’s out of his depth on absorbing a pain plan for a woman he barely knows.
“I understand,” he says. “I’ve received clearance to work from home until she’s back on her feet.”
Until she’s back on her feet.
He says it with such certainty. Such ease. No stumble. No pause for effect. Two days ago he was a stranger in the crowd at Pike Place. Now he speaks over my future as if he not only belongs in it, but he’s controlling it too.
“Good, we’ll get discharge papers moving.” Dr. Felix looks over and catches my eyes open. “There you are.” He moves closer, checking my chart. “Hope, don’t get cocky because your scans improved. You took a hard hit. You’re young and healthy. Good signs all around. None of which gives you permission to push beyond what your body’s ready for.”
I don’t answer. Talking takes too much effort.
He studies me for a second longer. “Pain?”
I give him a look.
His mouth shifts, not a smile per se. “Right. Stupid question.”
Alek hovers half a step closer. Protective without crowding me. Present in a way I’m still trying to understand.
Dr. Felix hooks a thumb toward the folded stack at the end of the bed. “I brought you a pair of fresh scrubs. Easier than going home in a hospital gown.” He glances between me, Alek and the clipboard. “Nurse will bring final paperwork.”
He leaves on the same even note he came in on, door swinging shut behind him.
The machine by my bed keeps up its tiny electronic heartbeat. Hallway sounds drift in and out. A cart rattles past. Someone laughs too loud somewhere down the corridor. The whole hospital keeps moving while I lie here trapped in this stiff bed with a brain full of gravel.
Alek turns toward me. “You heard the doctor?”
I swallow. My mouth tastes stale and metallic. “Hard not to.”
His face softens. “You want water?”
I nod a bit too vigorously. Regret it at once.
He pours from the plastic pitcher, slips one hand behind my shoulders, raises the cup to my mouth slowly enough to keep the room from flipping sideways. Even so, the first trickle of moisture sends a wave of nausea rolling through me.
I breathe through it.
This whole thing is absurd. A near-stranger helping me drink water. Speaking to doctors as if we have a history. Somehow turning one insane lie into discharge plans and shared logistics.
All I have room for is exhaustion. I need to trust this man with my life and I’m not used to it. Especially after what just happened to me, which I haven’t even begun to process.
He sets the cup down. “Better?”
“Marginally.”
His mouth twitches.
