I stand and slowly start pacing, unable to sit still now that I know Hudson is in a room just down the hall. One hand presses against my throbbing ribs, my head not much better.
Dad tried forcing me down to the ER earlier to get my injuries checked out, but I refused. Instead, he convinced one of the ICU nurses to look me over. The concussion and bruised ribs will just need more time to heal.
Whatever.
It was worth it to pull Hud from the river.
The air begins to thicken around me, my heartbeat pounding against my ribs.
I need to get out of here.
I stride out of the waiting room and walk down the long, bright hallway, no destination in mind. The walls feel like they are narrowing, my chest so tight it hurts to breathe.
When the knot finally loosens in my chest, I come to a stop in front of a set of white double doors. There is a sign just above the wood trim—Reflection Room.
My hand meets the smooth surface and pushes gently, poking my head in. It’s empty of people, but chairs are scattered throughout the warm space. It’s a stark contrast to the white, clinical setting of the rest of the hospital, with its wooden-planked walls and plush cream carpet.
I immediately breathe a little easier, walking over to sit in a chair next to an open window. It overlooks a courtyard, roses of all colors in bloom, the soft fragrance carried on the breeze through the open glass.
Something about this room forces me to acknowledge how exhausted I am. Not just physically, but mentally. My mind hasn’t really processed what happened last night, and I’m not really sure I ever want it to.
One thing is nice, though, it doesn’t feel as suffocating to admit that to myself here.
My eyes fall shut as I lean my head against the wall, my hands folded over my stomach.
For a moment, it’s like everything outside of these walls doesn’t exist. In here, there’s no bridge. No grief. No stalkers or devastating phone calls.
Just calm.
I must drift off because I’m startled by a gentle shake to my shoulder.
My eyes snap open to see Mr. Daniels squatting next to the chair. His eyes are red-rimmed, his cheeks damp from crying. He gives me a tired smile that falters almost immediately. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Hadley said she saw you walk this way.”
“Just needed a breather,” I mumble, wiping my eyes of the sleep that gathered there.
“That’s alright. I think we all need one.”
I nod and sit straight, Mr. Daniels standing. “It’s your turn to go see him,” he tells me, the tired lines of his face shadowed in the dim room.
A ragged breath leaves my chest, and the numbness that’s been hovering over me starts to crack. My hands are clammy, my chest is tight again, but nothing will stop me from seeing him.
I rise from the seat, my hands tugging on the bottom of my t-shirt, anxious to finally set my eyes on Hud.
“Cullen,” Mr. Daniels calls, his voice fatigued. “Prepare yourself. There are a lot of wires and machines. Room seven-fifteen.”
I tip my head and slip out of my little slice of peace, then head down the hallway.
Hudson’s room is one of the last in the ICU wing, and each step gives me time to brace myself for what I might see. I pause in front of his cracked door and take a deep breath.
But nothing prepares me.
The second I step inside, my stomach drops so hard the bitter taste of bile creeps up my throat.
No matter what I imagined, this is worse.
My eyes latch onto the plastic hose taped to his mouth first, mechanical air hissing through it. Monitors beep somewhere to my left—too steady, too calm for what this is. Wavy lines I can’t make sense of flow on a blue screen, peaks and valleys that feel like they belong to someone else’s life.
Leads run across his chest and forehead, wires disappearing under his hospital gown like they are holding him together. A feeding tube snakes up his nose.
