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Breckin grabs the door as I carry her outside and over to my truck. Without words, he opens the passenger door for me to climb in. By the time I get her situated on my lap, he’s in the driver’s seat, scrolling on his phone.
“It looks like there is one clinic just outside of town. No hospitals.”
“Better than nothing.”
He punches it. As we barrel down the road, I hold her tighter. Her body seizes again. I bury my nose in her hair, wishing there was anything I could say to help. Or that help was closer. The minutes tick on, the stupid numbers on the dashboard taunting me every time her body jerks in my arms. I remember in health class there was something about only so many minutes of having a seizure before brain damage occurs, but I don’t remember how long that was or if this is even a full-fledged seizure. Maybe she’s having some sort of allergic reaction. Breckin reaches over, stroking her leg. I catch his eye and see the moisture glistening in them. Yeah, he’s feeling it, too.
I push my door open before he’s even pulled to a complete stop and carry her out. The clinic at least looks like a hospital, not some dinky, two-room joke most small towns boast. Hopefully they can help her.
Carrying her through the main entrance, I glance around. Cheery, bright teal and light wood greet me along with a long row of windows by the check in station.
“Emergency room?” I ask the nurse sitting behind the counter.
Before the lady can respond or point me in the right direction, someone in a white lab coat strolls by. “Oh, no, Asra,” she states, rushing over. “Cathy, is trauma room one prepped?” She reaches for a wheelchair, but I shake my head.
“I got her, just point me where to go.”
“This way.” She rushes down the hall. With Breckin on my heels, we follow her to a spacious room with two beds. I place her on the closest one as the woman in the lab coat grabs her stethoscope from around her neck.
“Sir, I need you out of the way.”
I take one step back, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m not leaving. Not until I know she’s fine.
Asra groans, crying out before throwing up all over the bed in front of her.
Everything happens so fast. Two more people rush in. They take her vitals, shove a needle in her arm, draw a bunch of blood that has my stomach curling, and hook an IV up to her. The lights are turned low, only a faint glow from a lamp in the corner illuminating the room. In the next instant, the bed linens are striped with her still in the bed, new ones laid down and a hospital gown put on her along with a tag around her wrist. They spew questions, one after another.
How long has she been this way? When did the attack start? How many times has she thrown up?
It’s like this is routine. Normal. Not some freak, horrible food poisoning. Breckin and I look at each other, shaking our heads. We don’t know the answers to any of them. And they haven’t told us a damn thing.
“God, I fucking feel helpless,” Breckin whispers beside me.
“Yeah, me, too, bro.”
When her body seizes again, the doctor calls out for another medication and more tests. My head whirls, not catching any of it. All I can do is watch. They’ve tried three times to push us out. We won’t budge.
“What’s happening, Ken Doll?” I ask as they wheel her bed out of the room.
“They’re running an EKG to check for any ruptures.”
“Ruptured what? What’s wrong with her?”
“I don’t know.”
We both sigh, watching her bed roll away. I curl my hands into fists. I want to punch something. Kick something. Destroy everything as if it would help.
Instead, I pace around the now empty room.
