Page 52 of After We Fall

Jason. He’s going to panic when he finds out I’m in the hospital.

I glance around the room, then back at the doctor, hoping that sharing time is over.

He peruses additional information on his tablet. “Okay. The good news is that there are no breaks in your arm. Your shoulder popped out of its socket, so once we reset the joint, it will be fine.” He taps several things on the screen while he murmurs, “But your head requires a little more attention.”

I clutch the beige waffle-weave blanket at my waist, gouging my thumbnails into the cloth fibers.

“My understanding is that you lost consciousness at the scene. That’s always concerning. But it’s the details of your two points of impact that I’m talking about now. When you fell, you hit your head in two places. The contusion on your eyebrow was the first point of contact. Apparently”—he squints at his notes—“you collided with the edge of an ice machine on the way down?”

With no true memory to confirm the accuracy of his statement, I offer a half shrug with my uninjured arm.

“It’s going to need sutures. But looking at the CT scan, that area in and of itself appears to look good.” He tucks the tablet under his arm. “The spot on the back of your head was the second point of contact—with the cement. That’s the one that’s got our attention. The contusion needs a few stitches as well. However, underneath the wound is the real concern. The CT shows a subdural hematoma. A bruise.”

A bruise? Earlier he said brain bleed. But bruises are no big deal. “Does that mean I can leave?”

“A bruise is a brain bleed. And we never take blood near the brain lightly, Miss Reid,” he says with gentle authority. “There’s no evidence of a skull fracture. But there’s blood pooling around an area of the dura, also known as the outer casing of the brain.”

Oh.

“I also don’t like the symptoms you’re experiencing. The nausea, dizziness, loss of memory. Plus, you’ve got a history with concussions. One that didn’t include a proper post-injury protocol. I’m going to admit you to the hospital so we can keep an eye on you.”

Panic sweeps through me. We have to find Finley. The girls are at the ranch on their own. Harlan and Meredith are coming home tomorrow. It’s too much. I can’t be here now. “For how long?”

“We’ll be watching for signs of neurological distress. We’ll do a repeat CT to monitor the hematoma. It could be a couple of days, maybe a little longer. I want to be cautious since this isn’t your first head injury. We’ll take care of you and get you out of here as soon as possible.” He pushes through a few more screens on his iPad.

A couple of days. A couple of days might as well be a year. I don’t have a couple of days. My bosses come home tomorrow. I have to get back to the ranch and pull things together to resemble some sort of order.

“It says here you’re reporting some pain,” the doctor says. “Because of the severe concussion, I can only give you acetaminophen. But the local anesthetic for the stitches should help some.” He pulls the tablet into his chest, securing it with his crossed arms. “I’m afraid the nurses will have to wake you to check on your vitals every so often. It’s part of the protocol. Hang in there with them, they’re just doing their job. Any questions?”

“No. Thank you,” I say quietly.

His giant eyebrows furrow in concern, but he smiles just the same, then leaves the room as if he didn’t just turn my world upside down on my head.

How did this happen?

Spotty patches of memory of the event flash through my head. That is to say, they flash when the blinding pain isn’t strobing like a 1970s dance floor.

Luke stands solid, hands splayed at his hips, his authority holding the room captive.

In light of my condition, I’m going to need his help at the ranch. But can he forget everything he just heard about my childhood and help me come up with a plan?

I take a fortifying breath. Let’s just face this head-on and get it out of the way.

Using my good hand, I fold the worn hospital blanket over and press on the crease of the fabric. “I wish you hadn’t been in the room to hear all of that.”

“If you had asked me to leave, I wouldn’t have.” He nods to me. “How bad’s your vision?”

“I know your pants are army green, possibly camo, but I don’t know if they’re your signature cargo pants.”

“My signature cargo pants?” he asks, his question laced with amusement.

Good. Yes. I can banter a bit. Let him believe I’m okay. Let him know I’m capable of moving on and handling this. “Yes. Please tell me that all is right with the world, and that you are wearing cargo pants.”

“I’m wearing cargo pants.”

“Well, that’s a relief. For a minute there, I thought today was going to throw me a curveball.”

A pained look crosses his face, and he whispers, “Penelope.”