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Quickly and efficiently, they attach a tube to the needle, and one of them holds up a clear bag with fluid. “Let’s go.”
They lift the stretcher, and Ash steps in to hold up the bag. Together, they take Zane out and down the stairs. Audrey tugs me along with Erin and Tyler, and we follow them to the ambulance, watch as they load him in.
“He’s not even conscious,” I choke out.
“Come on,” Tyler says, “let’s follow them to the hospital.”
Audrey tugs on my hand, and I nod, my throat so tight I can’t speak.
“He’s a strong guy,” she says. “He’ll pull through.”
Was there a chance he wouldn’t? Crap. I can’t hold back the tears anymore. She curls an arm around me as my breath hitches. I sob on her shoulder, trying to be quiet—as if it matters. She leads me toward her car and bundles me inside, then Ash slides into the driver’s seat and we’re off.
Through my tears, I watch the buildings and cars streak by. How did this happen? He almost drank himself to death.
‘I don’t need it when you’re here.’
His sister died, and I wasn’t there.
The buildings turn into weeping faces, the cars into snapping jaws, and I curl on the backseat, wishing this nightmare was over. That I’d never gotten the call about Aunt Carolina, that I’d never left town.
That time would turn back to yesterday morning and just stop.
Zane won’t wake up. It’s been four days since he was brought to the hospital and placed in the intensive care unit. He won’t react to anything. The doctors talk of hypoglycemia, dangerously low blood sugar, caused by the vomiting. They’ve been pumping glucose into his veins, along with fluids and antibiotics. At least it doesn’t look as though he’s banged his head, or has any internal injury.
He’s just… not responding. It’s so strange, seeing him on the narrow hospital bed, white sheets tucked up to his armpits, white walls and white tables, while he’s a riot of color with his tattooed chest and arms and the blue of what remains of his Mohawk.
Only his skin is as pale as the sheets, and it makes me feel sick. Still can’t wrap my head about what happened. Can’t believe it’s Zane they’re keeping in this tiny hospital room. Monitoring him. Making sure he doesn’t stop breathing, or choke on his own vomit. He has a catheter, I know, and the oxygen mask is always strapped on his face. A needle is strapped to his hand, pumping him full of antibiotics, fluids and God knows what else.
I sit by his side, holding his hand in mine, the blue curtains drawn around us to give a semblance of privacy.
“Wake up,” I whisper. “Come on, Zane. You’ve rested enough. Wake up already.”
Doctors say he probably will. But they can’t be sure, and I can’t take the possibility of him not waking. Not when I know for sure. When I know… I can’t live without him.
The doctors say to keep talking to him and let them know if he shows any sign of reacting. So I talk, and talk, and hope.
The Brotherhood has been in and out of this room so often I’m pretty sure the hospital is thinking of hiring a bodyguard to keep everyone out. They sneak in way past visiting hours and sit with Zane. Talk to him. Curse him. Command him to wake up.
It’s a good thing most of the other beds in this room are empty, or this wouldn’t work.
The girls are more touchy-feely. Erin strokes Zane’s cheek as she talks to him. Tessa puts her hand on top of his. Audrey puts both hands on his chest over the covers. Can he feel it? Can he hear it?
Then there’s the Damage Boyz—the boys Zane took in and who now work at Damage Control—Micah, Jesse, Seth, Shane and Ocean. They are quieter than the Brotherhood, not as comfortable with each other yet, but they sit with Zane, too, tell him about their day, and stare at him, expecting him to answer.
It’s heartbreaking. They look up to him, depend on him to guide them. I never realized how much responsibility he’s taken on his shoulders, how many lives he changed for the better.
They leave, and I return to my usual seat by his side. Four days, and it’s already a routine, a sad one. I haven’t slept in these four days. I can’t. The nurses are kind, and let me stay by his side.
Not sure it’s helping.
I brush my hand up his bare, muscled arm, over the tattoos and scars, up his neck to his stubbled jaw. His pulse beats strong there, and I let my fingers linger. Then I caress his cheek, his eyelashes, his brows, trail my hand down to his soft mouth, his strong chin.
My lips tremble. “It’s me, Dakota.” My voice is hushed, and I force myself to speak up, in case he can hear me. “I’m here, with you. Open your eyes to see me. Come on.”
I keep talking until my throat is so dry I can do no more than croak, and then I lean back in my chair and grab my drawing pad. Another new routine. Pencil in hand, lip pulled between my teeth, I draw him. I draw his beautiful face, his shoulders… Can’t see more of him, but I remember. I know what he looks like underneath the covers.
Then I draw dragons around him and spiders. Good luck charms. Protectors. I draw deathmoths with their skull designs, to counter death. I use magic.
