Page 31

It sounds vaguely familiar, although my brain is currently operating at approximately forty percent capacity.

He looks at me. “They are going to take you for the remaining tests.”

“You say that like you're the hospital administrator.”

“I’m informing you.”

“I have nurses for that.”

He gives me another one of those almost expressions. “Then I will leave you to them.”

He turns and walks out.

I watch him go.

Which is stupid. There are doctors about to examine my skull. I should be concerned with whether my brain is still structurally attached to the rest of me. Instead, I watch the door close behind Nikolai Volkov and immediately become aware of how much quieter the room feels without him.

That’s even stupider.

The next two hours involve enough machines to make me wonder whether the hospital is quietly assembling a spacecraft.

They scan my head. X-ray my hip. Check my shoulder. They ask me repeatedly whether I know my name, the date, where I am, and what happened.

By the fourth repetition, I begin developing increasingly creative answers.

“Elara Bennett,” I tell one nurse. “Twenty-five years old, financially unstable, currently reconsidering several recent life choices.”

The nurse smiles despite herself. “You've already told me that part.”

“I like consistency.”

Thankfully, nothing is broken.

I have a concussion, a badly bruised hip, strained muscles around my shoulder, several cuts, and what one doctor calls “significant soft-tissue trauma,” which sounds much more impressive than a car hit me and everything hurts.

They want to keep me overnight for observation. I don't particularly want to stay. Then I try walking to the bathroom and revise my position.

Hospitals are lovely. I may live here permanently.

By the time they bring me back to my room, it’s dark outside. Someone has left food on the tray beside my bed. I eat approximately six bites before deciding chewing requires unreasonable effort.

Then I stare at the ceiling. My phone.

Right. Dead. Or destroyed. Or still decorating St. Augustine's driveway.

I groan. I need to call my landlord and beg him for my place back. My tutoring clients. The delivery app.

Possibly Maya, although telling her I have been hit by a car is an activity best postponed until I have the physical strength to survive the resulting interrogation.

The door opens. I look over.

Nikolai walks in.

And something inside me relaxes.

I immediately become annoyed with myself. What is that? I have met this man exactly once while conscious. Twice if fainting into him counts as social interaction. There is absolutely no reason the sight of him should feel familiar already.

He’s changed clothes again. Or perhaps put the jacket back on.