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“Would you like to see him?”
He nodded. Dr. Modorovic filled him in on the rest of Alek’s injuries as she led him down overbright hallways to the ICU. Alek’s right arm had a nasty fracture at the wrist where it had hit the edge of the flagstone pathway, but the pine needle forest floor had cushioned him from any other major injuries. Just a lot of ugly bruises, she said. Ian hadn’t even thought to check for other injuries. He should have.
They stopped in front of a glass sliding door. A curtain hid the room from view.
“Alek is going to look different. His body is swollen and both of his eyes are bruised. A strip of hair is shaved on the left side of his head and there’s a bandage covering the incision. He’s been breathing on his own rather well now that most of the anesthesia has worn off, so there is no breathing tube. But as I said before, last I heard, he was still unconscious.”
“I understand,” Ian said.
Dr. Modorovic slid the door open and pulled the curtain aside.
Alek’s eyes were still closed. His skin color was remarkably better, the olive more brown than sickly gray. His right arm was in a cast. Alek would be devastated when he learned his wrist was broken. As long as Ian knew him, Alek never went a single day without playing the piano.
Now that Ian had laid eyes on Alek, the details of the hospital room filled in around the bed. There was a silver IV pole with pumps that blinked like lights on a Christmas tree, a standing-height computer on caster wheels, a whiteboard that saidWelcome Mr. Katin, as if whoever wrote it thought he would actually be able to read it. A narrow, uncomfortable-looking couch was shoved against the far wall beneath a window that looked down on a parking lot.
A tall Asian man pulled a chair to Alek’s bedside andgestured Ian over. “I’m Michael. Your partner’s nurse. He’s stable, but hasn’t woken yet.”
Ian sat in the hard plastic chair and scooted closer. The metal legs screeched like nails on a chalkboard, but Alek didn’t stir.
Dr. Modorovic frowned and crossed her arms over her chest. “Sometimes the anesthesia lingers. I’ll stick around for a few minutes in case he decides to wake up.”
Ian leaned forward and took Alek’s hand. It was surprisingly warm, but his fingers weren’t slender and graceful anymore.
“You can talk to him,” the nurse encouraged.
“Alek… Alek, it’s Ian.” Ian cleared his throat. He wished he didn’t have an audience, but on the other hand, if someone left them alone, he’d probably trip over the cord to some vital machine and accidentally kill Alek. He unfolded the fingers of Alek’s good hand and kissed the center of his palm. “I love you. Please come back.”
A series of shrill beeps sounded. Ian jumped. Was everything okay? Alek couldn’t die. He had already almost lost him. He couldn’t lose him again.
His heart raced as he scanned the room. Michael still typed at the computer. Nobody ran to their room. Alek looked the same—lifeless, unmoving, like a tall, dark, and brooding sleeping beauty. Ian forced himself to take a deep breath, even as his heart raced, and blood roared in his ears.
Dr. Modorovic pulled a pager from her waistband and squinted at the screen. “Sorry about that,” she said, clipping the pager back on her pants.
He hadn’t seen a pager since high school.
“Zashto e tolkova tikho?” Alek’s voice was scratchy, like that time he had strep throat.
Ian swung his gaze back to the bed. Alek’s eyes remained closed, his face expressionless. Had he imagined it?
But Dr. Modorovic must have heard Alek too, because she pulled off her surgical cap and asked, “He speaks Bulgarian?”
“Oh, is that what it is? He only ever speaks to me in English.” Ian was disappointed Alek hadn’t been the one to tell him first. “What did he say?”
“He asked why it’s so quiet.” Dr. Modorovic stepped closer to the bed. “Mr. Katin, can you hear us?”
7
ALEK
“Yes, I hear you,” Alek said to the disembodied voice.
His head throbbed. His entire body hurt, actually. Everything felt heavy, like he was buried under an ocean of sand. He opened his eyes and blinked against the bright overhead lights. Maybe this was wherego towards the lightcame from.
He looked for Ian—he’d heard him say “I love you”—and found him holding his hand. There were tears on his lashes like dewdrops on fern leaves after it rained. Alek wanted to taste them.
“Why are you crying?” Alek asked.
Ian looked at him blankly. Was Alek dead? Could Ian see him?
