Page 98 of When the Smoke Clears

“Call Jamie,” I say into my phone when I don’t hear it making a 9-1-1 call.

“William, I’m coming. Just a sec,” Everleigh warns.

“Fuck!” I pinch the bridge of my nose with one hand as the sawdust scratches the hell out of my cornea. With my other hand, I try to press the side buttons on my phone for an SOS.

“Stop,” Everleigh says as she squats next to me again. “We’re not calling 9-1-1 or anyone else. I’ve got this. Now, lean forward. You can’t be in this position when I rinse out your eyes.”

As I lean forward, I hear the snap of gloves. “Try to hold still.”

I jump when the saline hits my eye.

“Hold still.”

I growl, clenching my fists.

She rinses both eyes with a syringe. Her whispered sorrys mix with my grumbled fucks. I need new eyeballs. Mine will never be the same. Even when she’s done, they feel scratched like someone tortured them with sandpaper.

“Your vision might be a little blurry. Let me help you to my camper, and you can lie down until it’s better. I was up early, so I could use a little nap too.”

I stand, swinging my elbow to keep her from touching me. “Stop! I don’t need your help. I’m going back to Fitz’s.” Dammit! My vision sucks. “Where’s my phone?” I slide my hands into my pockets.

“It’s right here. I have it,” she says.

“Give it to me.”

“I’m not giving it to you until we talk.” Her blurred figure leads the way to the door.

“I’m not in the mood to talk, Everleigh.”

“It was an accident.”

“Well, this accident fucking hurts.”

“Will, I’m serious. I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you or hear you, and you startled me.” She stops and turns before opening the door. “Please don’t hold this against me. It was an accident.”

“It’s . . . fine. Whatever. I’ll be okay, eventually.” I squint, heading toward my truck.

She jumps in front of me, quickly walking backward while I continue toward my Bronco, squinting against the sun. “Stop. Please.”

Oof!

“What the fuck, Everleigh?” I say, almost losing my balance when she throws herself at me, arms around my neck and legs dangling off the ground.

“I’m sorry. Don’t go. It’s not safe for you to drive.”

Dr. Reichart is dead. This woman hanging from my neck is not a genius, not a highly respected professional, and definitely not a psychiatrist. She’s a desperate child.

“If you get off me,” I say calmly, “I’ll lie down until I can see to drive. Would that make you happy?”

She releases her grip on me an inch at a time until her boots hit the dirt. With a soft sigh, she takes my hand and guides me to her camper. “Watch the steps,” she says.

We turn right and pass her kitchen to get to the bed. I collapse onto my back, gently covering my eyes with my palms.

“What are you doing?” I ask as she messes with my boots.

“I don’t want your boots getting dirt on my bedding.” She pulls off my boots. “This Airstream is the Pottery Barn Special Edition, and I want to keep it in good shape for when I sell it.”

“Funny. You weren’t concerned with my house.”