“Yeah. See you, Emmett.” She sounds resigned, almost sad that this is the end of the road. Or maybe that’s me.
I’ll most certainly be discharged while she’s off, and we will probably never see each other again. Eventually, she steps aside and the calm she brought with her goes too.
Becky wheels me back inside my room.
I look over my shoulder, half expecting Aspen to still be there, but from this stupid chair, all I can see is the door closing.
“All right, Casanova, the field trip is over. Stop ogling my nurse. Back to bed.”
She locks the wheelchair at the edge of the bed, and instead of waiting for her help or instructions, I stand and shift to the bed, swinging my legs up with a grunt.
“I don’t ogle,” I grit out.
A knock sounds at the door and there’s a flicker of hope that Aspen’s back before it swings open and an unfamiliar woman walks in.
“Hey, Emmett. I’m Cleo, the social worker. I’m here to talk about your discharge plan.”
“What do I need to tell you so I can get out of here?”
My mood flips on a dime with Aspen gone. It doesn’t matter what she made me feel or how I opened up. Our time is over, and it’s for the best. That realization only sharpens my need to get the hell out of this hospital—back to the world as I know it and back to my crew to do the only thing I’ve ever been good at.
Cleo glances up from her tablet, already tired of me.
“The address we have listed is in Coyote Creek. Is that where you will stay after discharge?”
Starting off with a bang.
My eyes track Becky as she reconnects the IV pump beside my bed.
“No. I’m getting approved for a short-term rental closer to the hospital.”
“I wasn’t aware we had any of those nearby,” Cleo comments.
It seemed unlikely to me, too. But after realizing how long this recovery was going to take, I had to ensure my living situation wouldn’t be a hurdle to me getting out of here. I’d much rather go home, but living in a van while I heal won’t get me back to the fire line faster.
“This just became available.”
It’s also fully furnished, so I’ll have everything I need—comforts I haven’t allowed myself in years.
“And how long do you think you’ll be there?” she asks, tapping away.
“Until I’m cleared to return to work.”
“In the event it falls through, we have transitional housing available. It’s a bit of a hike, but we offer transportation to your appointments.”
As soon as I hear her mention “transitional housing,” I tune her out. Before my grandparents gained custody of me, I lived in a foster home for a few weeks; the memory sets me on edge.
“It won’t fall through.”
“Do you have transportation for tomorrow?”
I rub my palm over my jaw. “I’m still working on that part.”
Cleo smiles. “We can arrange transportation.”
“Fine,” I say.
I have half a mind to ask her if we’re almost done, but I’m already being enough of an ass. So I grit my teeth and wait for the next question.
