Page 4 of The Image of You

“Get off him!” A voice broke through my panic. “You’re frightening him.”

“He needs to be restrained. He’s been fighting us the whole way here.”

“He needs to be looked after, and his head is bleeding again. Back off, Hank. Now!”

Gentle hands touched my face as I turned my head, trying desperately to focus and figure out where I was. A female voice, close to my ear, spoke. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re safe. Please stop thrashing, you’re making the bleeding worse.”

Blood? I was bleeding? Is that what was in my eyes?

I shuddered, and a wave of nausea washed over me.

God, I couldn’t stand the sight of blood—especially my own. It was one of the few things I couldn’t handle.

Somehow, the quiet timbre of her voice helped to calm me down, and I drew in a deep breath, pulling in the needed oxygen.

“Good. That’s good,” she soothed. “More deep breaths, Adam. Good.”

I turned my head toward the sound of the voice. “Where am I?” I rasped.

“You’re at Toronto General. You fell. Do you remember?”

I frowned, searching my brain, and then it all came back.

The shot.

The ice.

The hand grabbing me and the shout.

Tommy.

That little fucker had startled me.

I tried to sit up, struggling against the sheet and whatever machines they had hooked up to me. “My camera. Where’s my stuff?”

Hands on my chest eased me back. “Stay still, or I’ll call Hank back. Let me flush your eyes and finish cleaning your wound. The butterfly bandages they put on it didn’t hold.”

“My camera?” I insisted.

“You should be more worried about your head than your camera.” She chided me.

“My camera is worth more,” I quipped.

I heard a sigh, then felt the weight of my camera in my searching hands. “Your stuff is fine—somehow your camera hit your bag not the rooftop. Your equipment and clothes are right here. Now, will you settle down?” There was a pause, and her voice became more teasing. “Or I’ll get Hank back. Your choice.”

I ran my fingers over the metal and plastic, checking for cracks, grateful it seemed to be fine. “I’ll behave,” I grumbled. “No need to get the fucker back.”

“Language,” she admonished.

Cold hit my forehead with a stinging sensation, and I jerked.

“Sorry. I need to clean the gash. All your thrashing has made it reopen.”

“You better be a doctor,” I growled. I didn’t want some med student messing with my eyes.

“I’m a nurse. I went to school for it and everything. Will that do?”

I huffed at her annoyed tone. “For now.”