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“You have to go home sometime.” I shrug. “Don’t test me, lady. My sister is all I’ve got. Believe me, I wouldn’t waste a single night’s sleep worrying about the beatdown I’d give you.”
Her eyes trail over my thin body, a smirk tugging at her lips.
“Yeah, I’m skinny as shit, but don’t let that fool you. I’m scrappy and I know how to throw a punch, so try me. I dare you!”
When she raises her hand to call security, I kick myself for being so hotheaded. If Zoey suffers yet again for my poor decisions, I will never forgive myself.
Luckily a doctor must have heard my rant, because he rushes out to see what all the noise is about. Wearing a pristine white coat, he rushes toward us. His belly protrudes over his pants, and his hair is graying, but he has warm, kind eyes.
“What’s the problem here?” he asks softly.
I suck in a shaky breath and point at Zoey. “She’s really sick, please help.”
“Okay, let’s get her into a treatment room.”
I nod, thanking him as I rush over.
“Layla?” Zoey whispers, her face covered in a sheen of sweat as she wipes her mouth, peering up at me.
“It’s okay, baby girl. We are going to get you the help you need,” I promise as I brush her hair away from her forehead.
“But it will cost money. Just take me—”
“No, shush, don’t you worry about that. Let this nice doctor check you over,” I coo as I lift her into my arms and follow him as he leads me down a corridor to a treatment room. Pulling the door shut, I lay her on the bed and wait, looking around. All the drugs are locked away, as usual, but at least it’s nice in here.
“Hi. Zoey, was it?” he asks as the doctor steps closer to her, the friendly smile on his face instantly calming me. “I’m Dr. Rhoads, and I’m going to help you, okay? Can you tell me what’s wrong?”
She looks at me, silently asking me to answer for her since she is too frail to carry on a conversation, so I step up. “She’s been throwing up for three days, her head hurts, she can’t drink or eat, and she’s weak. She’s also fainting a lot.”
“Okay, what’s your name?” he asks.
“Layla,” I reply, clearing my throat. “I’m her sister.”
“You did good bringing her in. Let’s take a look. Is there a history of anything I need to know about?”
“She has migraines,” I begin, and then I instantly reel off the list of medications she’s on while he nods, taking it all in. When his thick brow furrows in worry, I stiffen.
“What?” I question as he continues to examine her. When he’s done, he steps back and sighs.
“I’m worried this could be something serious. She needs more than I can give her here—fluids to replace those she’s lost, a banana bag for sure, and almost certainly a scan.”
My world crumbles, but I nod and listen as he explains that he’s going to call me a cab since I’ll have to leave here and take Zoey to the emergency room. I thank him and carry her out, ignoring the unease pooling in my stomach.
“Layla, it’s okay, take me home,” she insists, picking up on my anxiety.
I smile down at her to try and reassure her, but I must not do a good job.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promise. “Just focus on getting better, okay?”
It doesn’t take long to get to the emergency room, and the difference between it and the clinic is astounding. There are comfy blue chairs in a calm waiting room with vending machines and a polite, smiling receptionist. Everything is all clean and happy. Zoey is checked in and rushed inside on the doctor’s orders, and I stay by her side as she undergoes blood tests, CT scans, x-rays, and everything in between.
The hours go by quickly, and before I know it, we are waiting inside the room with the paper curtain pulled for privacy. I hold her hand as she sleeps under the blankets in the bed, an IV in her other arm with fluids and nutrients to replace what she lost, as well as pain medication. Watching it being pumped into her tiny body that barely fills the bed, I let a few tears fall.
I suddenly find myself wishing someone else were here to support me, to help us—even if it was only to tell me I’m doing the right thing. Worry clouds my mind, but as the curtain is pulled back, I wipe away my tears and suck it up. My feelings can wait; this is more important.
“Hi, Layla, I’m Dr. Ramos. I’m the head neurosurgeon—”
“Neurosurgeon . . . So it’s her brain?” I interrupt, standing as Zoey starts to wake.
