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I may be groggy, but I’m not stupid. No doctor dishes out medicine in a mason jar.
I attempt to sit up.
“Take it easy, there.” He scoops an arm behind me and easily lifts me to sitting.
I gape. “Who are you?”
He looks down at the nametag on his white coat. “I’m Dr. Wesson.” He looks back up and thrusts the jar at me with a large gnarled hand. “Now drink this. All at once, so you get the right dosage.”
“What is it?”
“Bear brush tea. Unless you want to spend the next week in this ICU, you’ll drink that whole jar down right now.”
Bear brush tea.
I don’t take the jar from him. “You’re the bear,” I accuse triumphantly. I’m glad my fuzzy brain could figure anything out right now. “You led Abe to find me.”
This sets him in motion. He caps the jar and tucks it beside me on the hospital bed then backs up toward the door. “Drink the tea, Lauren,” –he points a finger at me as he steps through the open doorway– “If you want to get out of here without a limp. That’s the only thing that’s going to heal you.” He starts to go then turns. “I put honey in it, so it won’t taste so bad.” And then he’s gone, pulling off his surgery cap and shrugging out of the doctor’s coat as he stalks down the hall.
I stare after him, trying to remember what happened the night I got bit. The bear came bounding toward me. It reached those long arms out for me. Was he trying to pick me up? All I saw was claws and fangs. I thought he was trying to attack me, so I screamed and threw rocks. He must have realized I wasn’t going to let him help me, so he went for Abe.
I uncap the mason jar and sniff. It does smell like honey. I bring it to my lips and take a tiny sip. The moment I do, my body is hungry for it.
It’s like when you’re thirsty, and you take a sip of water but then find yourself gulping down the whole glass. I drain the jar before I even know what I’m doing. As soon as I finish, my brain clears.
The throbbing in my leg eases. I can breathe deeply.
I look around. There’s no light coming through the windows. The clock reads one. In the morning? I guess so.
I want out of here. Heat and tingles flush my body. I pull the IV out of my arm and throw back the blankets. I suddenly can’t stand to be cooped up inside for another minute. If I don’t get some fresh air, I’m going to pass out.
I swing my legs off the bed and gingerly put weight on my feet. My ankle throbs, but holds me.
I spot my clothes folded in a corner and hobble over. My phone is sitting on top of the pile, as well. Abe must have gone after it for me.
I hear people talking in the hallway and freeze, but they pass by without looking inside. I hurriedly pull on my clothes and slip my feet into the flip flops. My foot is still swollen, and there are angry dark lines going up my leg, but the heat and tingling has traveled in that direction, almost as if it’s flushing away the poison.
I slip out through the door, keeping my head down and walking quickly until I find my way out of the hospital where I gulp in the fresh air.
I keep moving, some urgency to get away from the hospital and the city in general pressing me forward. That’s when I spot Abe’s Range Rover.
Abe is inside, sleeping against the driver’s door like he’s been here the entire thirty hours.
I knock on the window, and he jerks awake. “Lauren!” He throws the door open and wraps me in a giant hug. “Fates, what are you doing out of your hospital bed? How are you even walking?”
“Abe, thank God you’re here. I’m fine. Sore, but totally fine. Just dying to get home.”
Abe cradles my face, peering into it, his brows down. “Yeah.” He sounds surprised. “You look good. So much better than you did a few hours ago. Your dad let me come into the room to see you.”
I don’t know what stops me from telling him about the bear and the tea, but I hold that information back. For some reason, it feels like something just between the old bear shifter and me right now.
“Take me home?”
“Of course.” Abe releases me in degrees, like he’s reluctant to let go of me. Then he seems to change his mind and scoops me into his arms to walk around to the passenger side of the car.
I laugh. “I can walk okay. I have a bit of a limp, but it's not too bad.”
“I don’t care,” he says gruffly. “I nearly died thinking you were suffering, and there was nothing I could do.”
