Page 26 of Protected from Torment

“How are you feeling?” Griffin asks, drawing my attention to him. For the last half an hour or so, he’s been standing just outside the doorway, keeping watch. But he likes to check on me every so often, either to ask how I’m feeling or give me an update on Oscar.

His gaze moves across my face, carefully assessing. He moves into the room, his eyes still on me, not because he wants to stare at me, but because he wants to make sure I’m not suffering some sort of horrible complication from my injuries.

I’m not, as far as I know. My head hurts, and I’m slightly lightheaded and nauseous. My body aches. The painkillers I took earlier are starting to wear off, and my broken wrist feels like it’s on fire. But as the doctor told me, all those things are to be expected. As long as I don’t start throwing up or hallucinating, I shouldn’t worry.

“You were lucky, considering,” the doctor told me. “You’ve got a simple, un-displaced fracture in your wrist, which means you don’t need surgery. Your concussion is moderate, and the scans don’t show any bleeding or significant swelling. After a few weeks of taking it easy, you should be good as new.”

I wanted to laugh at him when he called me lucky. A stranger broke into my house and beat me up over some drugs I allegedly promised him. I’m in the hospital. My dog is sitting in a kennel at the local animal hospital after one of my neighbors found him, probably scared and confused and wondering where I am. And someone—the same guy who beat me up? Or another person?—keeps playing malicious tricks on me.

Except, can you call them tricks when they aren’t funny at all? When some of the things that happened could have cost me my job?

Deep in my thoughts, I startle when Griffin asks, “Melissa? Are you feeling worse than before?” Worry creases his features as he approaches my bed. “Can you tell me what’s wrong? Do you need me to get the doctor?”

Giving myself a mental shaking, I quickly reply, “Oh, no. I’m good.”

His eyebrows arch skeptically. “You’re good?”

“Well,” I amend, realizing how idiotic that sounded. “Maybe not good. But I’m not worse. I was just thinking, is all.”

“Okay…” Griffin eyes the monitor recording my pulse and oxygen levels. “Everything looks okay there,” he notes. “Pulse a little high, but being in the hospital, that’s to be expected.”

“How’s Oscar?” I ask. “Have you heard anything else from the animal hospital?”

“I haven’t heard anything new since the last time I called,” he replies. Which, now that I’m thinking about it, was less than an hour ago. “But I can call again, if you want.”

I want to say yes. That I can’t stop worrying about Oscar, even though the vet said he’s perfectly fine. That I keep worrying that the man who attacked me will somehow break into the animal hospital and hurt Oscar, just to punish me.

But I don’t say any of those things. Instead, I reply, “No, that’s okay. I don’t want to bother them.”

Griffin’s stony features soften. “It wouldn’t be bothering them. If you’re worried...”

“I know it’s stupid. The vet said Oscar’s fine.”

“It’s not stupid,” he replies. “If I were in your situation, and Henry was in the animal hospital, I’d be worried, too. Not because there’s any reason. But because he’s my dog, and it’s impossible not to.”

Not for the first time, I think about how fitting it was that Tyler asked Griffin to come to the hospital. Tyler called me from the Portland airport, minutes before taking off, to let me know he had a friend coming to watch over me. “Not that I think anything bad is going to happen,” he explained. “I’d just feel better having someone I trust to watch out for you.”

So he called his old Army buddy, Griffin, who also used to be a Green Beret. “Griffin’s a great guy,” Tyler told me. “He lives out in Syracuse, working for the K9 unit. And he loves dogs, just like you. I already spoke to him, and he’s on his way.”

I’ll admit, it’s been nice having someone who understands my concern. I didn’t have to explain why I was worried about Oscar. Griffin just knew. Plus, whenever I start to get upset, he distracts me with stories about the antics of his dog, Henry, until I’m feeling more in control again.

“It’s really okay,” I assure Griffin, feeling guilty about the ten-plus times he’s called the vet already. “I’m sure Oscar’s fine. And anyway, I bet the place is closed. Most of the animal hospitals around here close by six at the latest. So there won’t be anyone to answer the phone...”

Or check on Oscar.

Give him scratches between his ears, just the way he likes.

Give him his evening treat.

Take him on his nightly walk.

A lump swells in my throat as I think about Oscar alone in his kennel, without his memory foam bed and his favorite toys and me to keep him company. My nose starts to prickle. Tears burn behind my eyes.

Dropping my gaze to my lap in hopes of hiding the threatening tears, I notice my hands are shaking.

“Melissa?” Griffin touches my arm. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

The lump grows even larger, until it’s hard to force my words past it. Nodding, I manage a choked, “I’m fine.”