He snoops in rooms and scuffs his way to an unmarked closet.
What is he looking for? Is he hoping to find something worth stealing?
I leave the desk to approach him. If he’s here to visit someone, at least I can point him toward the nurses’ station where I can look up the patient’s room number. He’d appear less suspicious that way.
But he purposefully avoided the desk.
“Excuse me?” I call out as he opens the janitor’s closet. “Can I help you find something?”
He has slipped off his leather jacket and let it fall to the floor as he wipes his brow.
Slowly, he closes the door and turns to me. My mouth falls open as I gaze into his dark gray-blue eyes. They remind me of a stormy sea. His tanned complexion softens the angles of his face, and his full lips press into a line.
My heart flutters, and I take a step back. I lift my hand, and it trembles in an exciting way. I swiftly lower it, clasping both hands behind my back.
He tilts his head with a questioning stare. He opens his mouth to speak, but then his head slumps forward and then back.
“Whoa,” I say, stepping in close. “Are you okay?”
Again, he tries to speak, but this time his shoulders slump forward.
My hands lift toward him, worried he’ll fall. “Hey, it’s okay,” I say. “Let’s take a seat.”
Before he can respond, his body gives way. I dip my knees, pulling my arms around his waist as he faints.
“Help!” I call out. “Help!”
Behind me, stomps hurry into the hall. Two nurses get on either side of us, lifting him off me.
“Vanessa, are you okay?” Cindy asks.
“Yeah,” I say, puffing.
I step aside as Nurse Trisha races a gurney toward us.
“I have no idea what happened,” I say, watching them attempt to wake him up. “He tried to speak and then collapsed.”
While Dr. Harris paces the hall to reach us, Trisha checks my shoulder and neck.
“Any tension when I touch here?” she asks, pressing on my muscles.
“No. No, I’m fine,” I reply. “You should check on him.”
“Okay,” Trisha says, backing away. “But you tell someone if it becomes painful.”
“Will do,” I say, standing as they lift the boy onto the gurney.
“Oh no,” it tumbles out of Dr. Harris as he examines the boy’s arm.
“What is it?” I ask, my heart pounding hard.
Dr. Harris makes eye contact with the nurses and then motions to the boy’s lower arm. “You all know what this means. Tread lightly.”
My anxiety ruptures, and I fling myself toward Dr. Harris. “What is it? What’s wrong with him?”
“It’s okay, Vanessa,” he says soothingly. “We don’t know yet. We need to get him checked in.”
I pan around at the worried nurses’ faces and stamp my foot. “What is it?”
