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His ankles were chained.
Now he was fully awake. He jerked at the handcuffs again, as if maybe he’d been wrong, and this time there’d be nothing there. His head pounded, keeping pace with his pulse. Breath rattled in his chest, every inhale like a stab through the heart.
If he was here, where were his brothers? Who had chained him to the bed? He didn’t even know which hospital this was. The décor revealed nothing more than careful neutral blends of beige and pink.
The door stood partly ajar, and aside from a few people dressed in white passing by outside, he couldn’t see anyone. A good thing or a bad thing? He didn’t like this. He needed to be out of here.
“Hey,” he called out. Speech forced a cough from his throat, and he almost doubled over from the sudden pain. He gasped and tried again. “Hey!”
The door swung open, and a policeman peered into the room.
Michael blinked in surprise. He’d expected a nurse or an orderly.
Then his brain caught up. Nurses didn’t use handcuffs.
The man didn’t seem much older than Michael himself—but he looked fierce and determined, like he enjoyed his job a little too much. His hand actually rested on the butt of his gun.
“You’re awake,” he said. “I’ll let them know.” Then he pulled the door almost all the way closed. Michael could hear him murmuring to someone—or maybe into a radio.
Handcuffs. A cop. He was being guarded.
What happened?
“Hey!” he called again. His voice sounded thin and reedy, and his entire rib cage really wanted him to lie back down.
The door swung open again. “Calm down. They’ll be up in a while.”
“Who?” Michael paused for breath. It took him a minute. “Why am I chained to this bed?”
The officer snorted and began to pull the door closed again. “Because we don’t usually let bombing suspects wander free. Go figure.”
“Hey. Hey!” Michael yanked at the chain restraining him to the bed rail. It felt as if his chest were being pulled apart from the inside. His muscles finally rebelled, and he collapsed back into the bed.
Bombing suspect.
Did that mean he’d been arrested? If he healed, would he be taken to jail? He couldn’t catch his breath at all. His shirt felt too tight, like someone had grabbed hold and started twisting the fabric at the center of his back.
Then he realized he wasn’t wearing a shirt. His chest was wrapped in bandages.
The door opened, and Michael gritted his teeth, ready to let loose on the policeman. But no, this was a nurse with a tiny cart. The officer followed her in and stood at the foot of the bed.
He looked like he was hoping he’d get a chance to draw his weapon.
The nurse—whose name tag read ELISSA—pulled a blood pressure cuff off the cart. She wore no makeup and her skin was barely lined, but there were traces of grey in her blond hair. Her movements were sure and confident. “Good morning,” she said, as if she treated patients in handcuffs every day.
“We’ve been waiting for you to wake up.” She pushed a few buttons on the monitor at the top of the cart, then reached for Michael’s restrained arm. “May I get your blood pressure?”
“I didn’t set any bombs,” he said darkly, his eyes on the cop.
“I didn’t say you did,” the nurse said equably. She pulled the nylon cuff around his bicep and fastened the Velcro, then pushed a button on the machine to make it inflate.
Then she frowned and leaned closer. She pulled the sheet down, exposing the bandages around his chest. “We’ll need to redo your dressing.”
“He’s fine,” said the police officer.
“You can do your job and I can do mine,” she said. “I need to check the stitches.”
“Stitches?” said Michael.
