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I stare into space.
People stroll by me—people of all looks and walks of life.
Two parents, worried about their screaming toddler, take a seat. They have to wait because my friend is unconscious.
They must wait and worry about their child—who may have a fever, may be sick. But the rules are ironclad. The child is conscious, so they have to wait.
I try to block out the sick child’s screams. He can’t be more than two or three, and his blond hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat. Most of the seats are filled in the waiting area, but except for the toddler, I can’t tell who the patients are and who the family members and friends are. It’s like they’re stick people and they all look alike. They don’t exist in my world because I don’t know them. I don’t care for them the way I care for Dragon. I don’t appreciate their stories. All I know is that these plastic seats are damned uncomfortable on my ass.
The clerk who took Dragon’s paperwork is busy, along with a nurse who seems to be assessing patients. The ER—or whatever the hell it’s called here—is busy this morning, which is why the poor child can’t be seen yet. He sits on his mother’s lap, and she kisses his forehead, trying to soothe him. The father sits next to her, his face pale and lips twisted into a frown.
In the corner is a dedicated space for kids with toys and books, but no one plays there. The toddler is the only child here, and he’s too sick to care. A vending machine sits next to the children’s area. Again I think I should eat something, but I don’t have any British change. It probably takes a credit card. Still, I don’t move. I feel glued to this hard plastic chair.
Glued to this place.
Glued to misfortune. Glued to pennilessness. Glued to a fucked-up life.
Glued to?—
“Stop it!” I say out loud.
Eyes dart toward me, but I don’t care. I have to stop this train of thought because it’s going to send me down a path I can’t go. Not with Dragon’s life and my career hanging in the balance.
Gratitude.
That’s where I need to focus.
I’m here. I’m alive. I’m so damned grateful for everything I’ve received. To be on this tour.
It can’t be over.
It can’t be over this soon.
And it can’t be over because of me.
“Mr. Locke?”
I jerk toward a voice. A woman wearing green scrubs, her blond hair pulled back into a ponytail, stands near the entrance to the waiting area.
“Who’s here for Mr. Locke?”
I rise and walk toward her. “I am.” My heart is stampeding against my chest. I can even see the movement if I look closely enough.
“And you are?” she asks.
“His friend. Roommate. My name is Jesse Pike.”
“All right. I’m Dr. Nelson. Mr. Locke’s toxicology screen came back positive.”
My heart sinks to my stomach, though I’m not sure why. Of course it came back positive. “What drugs did it show?”
“We have to run more tests to identify the specific drugs. In the meantime, we’ve pumped his stomach, but unfortunately, depending on when he ingested the drugs, it may not be helpful.”
“Is he okay?”
“He’s alive. Still unresponsive. But his organs are working, and once we find out what specific drugs are in his system, we’ll be able to treat him better.”
“Why didn’t you test for specific drugs?”
