“Scout! Baby, please! Scout!”
Her eyes are shut, but she’s warm. Still seems to be breathing, and that’s the only thing that stops the pain from taking over.
I blink back tears and yell, “Scout!”
It’ll be faster if I drive her car to the emergency room. With her held tight in my arms, I snag her keys from the hook near the door and hurry outside.
Not so carefully, I hurl her into the backseat, blood still dripping from her wound. When I jump inside and race toward the hospital, I blow through a crosswalk—someone screams—swerve past a cyclist by inches. I’m panting and cursing as a hand snakes from the backseat to brush against my shoulder.
“S-Stallion?”
“Fuck!Tulip! You’re awake?”
I twist around just long enough to see her blink heavily, then pass out again.
At the doors, I tug her out of the car and rush inside. She’s a rag doll in my arms. Unmoving. And barely breathing.
“Help my wife! Please, someone help her!”
A few nurses surround me, drilling me with a million questions that I don’t have answers for. Not that I can understand half of what they’re saying.
We’re rushed into a little room, and within a minute, it’s filled with several people. I’m shoved against a far wall as they work on Scout. Someone strips her clothes. Another person jabs a long needle into her arm.
“You’re her husband?” a woman in a long white coat with concerned eyes asks.
My throat is still raw as I nod and say, “Yeah…I am.” I try to take a breath and whisper, “She’s my wife…”
“Let’s step out here.” She points toward the space just outside the door. “Scout looks as if she has a laceration on her arm from a knife. And is heavily intoxicated. We’re running tests to see what’s in her system. Does she drink alcohol or use any substances?”
“N-No substances. Yeah, she drinks, but… We don’t. I don’t think that’s it.”
“Was she depressed recently, or having anxiety about school—anything like that?”
My heart thuds hard against my ribs. Especially as I think about Scout’s poor grade on her test. The one Dean Dutta made her fail.
This doctor thinks Scout hurt herself…
I hate that I ask the question myself.
Did she?
I shake my head. “She’s fine. She said there was someone else in the house.”
“Oh! Then we’ll need to alert the police! Is there anyone you need to call?”
“I’ll handle it,” I say with a nod, eyes still on Scout’s limp body.
“Dr. Smith? Narcan worked.” The doctor hurries back inside, waving for me to join her.
Narcan? What the fuck was in her system?
I follow, and Scout’s eyes flick open until she’s alert. She groans and writhes on the bed as if in pain. I reach for herhand, holding her tiny fist in my grip, then squeeze. As if waking, she gazes up at me, surprised and confused.
“Hi,” she mumbles.
I breathe a sigh of relief and lean forward, pressing my lips to her sweaty forehead. “Hi, tulip.” Tears threaten to blur my vision. But I shove that down. She doesn’t need to see it.
The nurses continue to help her, stabilizing her, while someone else stitches her arm. I take the moment to step out and call her parents, then mine.
