Page 142 of Slapshot Baby

I hope things haven’t become worse.

I push the door open, and Biscuit meets me in the hallway, whining in that high, broken pitch that dogs use when they know something is wrong but can’t fix it. She presses against my arm, shaking. Her nose keeps pushing into my palm and pulling away before she turns toward the living room, barking.

I rush to the living room.

“Ava.”

No answer.

The living room is dark except for a lamp near the window.

Ava’s on the couch, curled on her side, her phone on the floor beneath her dangling hand. My hoodie swallows her frame, covering her from her torso past her knee. The sleeves are bunched past her knuckles, the hem pulled across her legs.

Her face is swollen. Dried tear tracks cut lines through her skin from her eyes to her jaw.

I kneel beside the couch and press two fingers to her neck. Her pulse is slow and steady.

I breathe a sigh of relief.

At least her condition is stable. She’s just sleeping deeply.

“Ava.” I keep my voice low but firm. “Wake up.”

Nothing.

I check her arm for a bandage. There’s nothing there. They must have taken it off at the hospital.

I slide one arm under her knees and the other behind her shoulders and lift. She weighs barely anything.

Her head drops against my collarbone. A small sound leaves her mouth but her eyes stay closed.

I carry her down the hallway to her bedroom. Biscuit follows, nails clicking on the hardwood. I set her on the bed, pull the covers over her, and sit on the edge. Biscuit jumps up and curls against Ava's shin.

I pull a chair from her vanity table and sit beside the bed. Resting my elbows on my knees, I watch the two of them.

My breathing is uneven.

I haven't felt this kind of fear since I fell down and broke my arm as a child.

And there is nothing I can do about it because it’s not happening to me.

My girlfriend, who needed a blood transfusion today, went to the hospital alone. She drove herself home and only called me after because her body was giving up.

I’m not sure if I should shout or scream.

When Ava's eyes open, the lamp on the nightstand is the only light.

"Hey." My voice comes out rougher than I intend.

She blinks. Her eyes take a moment to find me, then widen.

"Kai?" Her voice is scraped raw.

She blinks, tries to push herself up on one elbow. The arm buckles. She catches herself on the pillow and stays half-propped, breathing hard from the effort.

"You fell asleep on the phone."

She rubs her face. Her fingers are trembling. "I... yeah. Sorry."