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“No,” I practically shout.
He shakes his head then shrugs again. Another doctor appears and they become engrossed in the images. I can only just hear what they’re talking about.
“That’s a compound fracture alright. But healed, rather nicely too I might add.” The second doctor says before he studies some other images. His mood shifting from interested to annoyed.
“But there’s no real residual or internal callus. How long ago was the break?” he asks, murmuring now.
Doctor one leans in and I do too, straining to hear anything they’re saying now.
“According to the patient and her medical records, she’s never fractured her ankle or anything else. Only sprained it last night.”
“This hematoma’s consistent with a break, but the bone repair is not. Is this some kind of prank, Doctor?” asks the other.
Straight away I remember the first time Xander touched me. It was his huge hands on my foot and ankle.
That feeling.
That wonderful soothing feeling.
“Glitch in the scan maybe,” he finally announces, sniffing with satisfaction.
“In the same place, at the same angle from four different scans? Look at the CT images,” the first doctor hisses, grabbing the other one by the sleeve.
“Well if she broke her ankle yesterday this would be divine intervention. A miracle if you will, Doctor?” The second says, snatching his sleeve back.
“And good luck trying to convince anyone of that,” he calls over his shoulder, storming off and mumbling about having his time wasted.
It is true though.
As far as I know, I’ve never broken anything. Only lost my first teeth but never had anything more than a bump or bruise my whole life. The fall yesterday is probably the most I’ve hurt myself ever.
Like the guy just said, a glitch on the scan. Probably a hair or something. Happens all the time.
My whole foot feels warm again like it did when Xander held it.
I’m no doctor, but when people break something it hurts so much they scream like I did when I first fell. Thought I was going to faint from it.
Until Xander.
And there it is again, all those dozens of questions I know I have bubbling up to the surface. I remind myself to ask him, but he either changes the subject or something else happens.
I guess now, after this morning we’ll have plenty to distract me with, but I know there’s more to him than he’s telling me. I just know it.
And once again, when I think about it hard enough it’s like I can hear his voice in my mind.
Do you really want to know?
Not if it means we can’t be together. That’s always my final answer.
All I want right now is Xander.
I actually don’t care about the Patterson place so much or her stupid dog. I just want Xander.
What did she expect? She left her house to a college student for a year, and dogs run away all the time.
Plus, like Xander said, Orion will come home when he’s hungry enough.
“Seriously, can I go now?” I ask the next nurse who passes by.
“I’ll just have another word to the doctor,” she replies, again.
I’ve asked nicely and I’ve shouted, but it’s like they’re deliberately keeping me here for some reason.
Oh my god.
My dad. What if they’ve called my dad?
He must’ve told them to keep me here until he can come to get me, then I’ll never see Xander again if he finds out what we did.
How could he find out? I’m not telling him, it’s none of his business.
And Xander wouldn’t tell. Would he?
“Hullo young lady,” A familiar voice calls out from behind me. “What on earth’s brought you here?” he asks.
My language professor, who insists everyone use ‘Mister’ instead of Professor as his title.
“Mr. Swanson,” I exclaim, saddened to see he’s looking unwell with some oxygen tubing going into his nose.
The friendlier nurse wheels him up next to my chair.
“Thought you two might like some company while you wait,” she says cryptically.
“My heart,” he explains in his broad but cultured English accent. He makes a vague effort to tap it but really looks so weak and frail, I feel bad for him.
“I only saw you last week,” I remark. “You seemed fine,” I add, wishing I’d kept it to myself.
He grunts, and almost looks as if he’ll turn away, but he leans in a little closer.
“And what are you in for?” he asks confidentially, ignoring the huge bandage on my ankle at the end of my leg, sticking out at an odd angle.
I’m in the mood to say something sarcastic, but Mr. Swanson is so sweet.
“I sprained my ankle,” I confess, realizing how silly it sounds now, especially after seeing those x-rays and hearing the doctors.
“Ah,” the old man muses. “Bad business that. Knew a chap once, lost both feet in the war. Bad business,” he says again shaking his head.
We sit in silence, his wheezing and the occasional click of his oxygen pump the only exchange between us until I figure why not?
