“Meredith?” Gray’s mother picked up by way of greeting.
Meredith could hear the strain in her voice. She already knew something was wrong. Meredith’s heart went out to her. “Dahlia, it’s Gray,” she said, forcing herself to sound calm. “The paramedics are here. He may be having a stroke—”
“Oh, God—”
“He’s conscious, and he’s thinking clearly. His speech is a little off, and he’s having some weakness and tingling on his right side—”
“Oh my dear God.”
“Dahlia, please call Dr. Cates. The sooner he knows what’s going on, the sooner Gray will get the treatment he needs,” she said, sounding much more sure of herself than she felt. “Meet us at General, and I’ll take Oscar.”
“Right. Of course.” Dahlia already sounded more composed, and Meredith breathed a sigh of relief. She had Oscar after all.
“I need to get back to him.”
“Yes. Go.”
They hung up without another word, and Meredith returned to the kitchen to see the two paramedics strapping Gray onto the stretcher.
“She… comes,” Gray ordered, looking at Meredith.
“Whatever you say, Mr. Blakewood,” Benny said, extending the stretcher to its full height.
“Meredith… put shoes on,” Gray muttered, and Meredith and the two paramedics stared down at her feet.
“He’s the most alert stroke victim I’ve ever seen,” Sam remarked.
“It’ll take us a minute to get him secured in the rig,” Benny said, giving her a kind smile. “You have time.”
“Right.” She nodded at the paramedic. Then she looked down at Gray. “Bossy.”
She caught his faint smile before she dashed upstairs where she grabbed her Toms and flew back down. Meredith shut the kitchen door behind her and hoped the dogs would be all right outside for the time being. She ran down the cold driveway in her bare feet and clambered up into the ambulance behind the stretcher. It fit between two cushioned bench seats, surrounded by medical equipment and mounted compartments on all sides.
“You can sit right there,” Benny said, pointing to the bench on Gray’s left. Gray’s eyes were closed. Covered up to his chest in a white sheet and strapped to the stretcher, he looked suddenly so frail. His color had gone, and Meredith reached for his hand, wanting to feel the warmth of his touch to prove to herself he was okay. When she wrapped her hands around his, he opened his eyes.
“I’m… so tired,” he said, frowning almost apologetically.
“It’s okay,” she said, leaning close and brushing his hair away from his forehead. At her touch, his face relaxed.
“Mmm… like that…”
She stroked his hair and blinked away the tears that filled her eyes. “Your mom’s calling Dr. Cates, and she’s meeting us at the hospital,” she told him.
He squeezed her hand in response.
Benny worked beside him, starting an IV. “This should help with that headache, Mr. Blakewood,” he said. The ambulance sped through the Saint Streets, and Meredith tried to concentrate on what needed looking after instead of on the terror that threatened to choke her.
“I’ll call Jude and let him know what’s going on,” she said. “The manuscript will—”
“Screw it.” His words were slurred, but she understood him clear enough, and this statement scared her more than anything. Gray put little else above his work. It was why he’d delayed treatment in the first place. For it to lose its value now either meant that Gray was more afraid for his life than he let on or whatever was happening in his brain was changing him. Both scenarios filled her with fear.
“If I don’t…” he began and then swallowed. “Don’t… be afraid.”
Meredith gave him an arched look. “That’s a tall order right now, Gray,” she admitted.
“I mean… if I don’t make it—”
“Hush,” she scolded, shaking off the subzero bolt that shot through her body with his words. “Don’t talk like that.”
