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I figure out the bottle after a dinner of zero real food and all snack stuff. I change his diaper, thinking how hard could it be, only to discover he’s an evil child with a sense of humor like his dad’s. That is, the joke is at my expense. I swear he laughs at me while I attempt this. “Vile and disgusting,” I say as he laughs.
I wake at four, Brighton’s whimper in her sleep dragging me from mine. The sounds from her nightmares always wake me. At least this time, there’s a valid reason for her mind to haunt her.
There’s a weight on my chest and a wet spot near my collar. Colt passed out, too, and his drool has seeped through my shirt.
I place him in bed with Bright, using a sofa pillow as a bumper so he doesn’t roll onto the hard linoleum floor. One glance at the woman I love, asleep with a baby, and my fate is sealed.
As if it weren’t already.
NINETEEN
HE AND I WILL HAVE WORDS IF THIS CONTINUES
BRIGHTON
The horrible noises infiltrate my dreams. But I won’t complain. It means Pop is alive.
The last twenty-four hours have been some of the roughest of my life. Aside from watching Mom deteriorate and having to let her go, being powerless when my family was under fire and knowing we could lose Pop… It’s the most helpless I’ve felt in a long, long time.
Images flitted across my eyelids all night.
Snipers in trees.
Hooded and shadowed figures creeping.
Horses reared up on their hind legs, hooves waving in distress.
Bullets flying through the air in slow motion.
My hair being yanked by an attacker.
The last is because Colt got tangled in it at some point, and my weary mind was too tired to delineate reality from dreams. But I’m brought to the surface by a little hand on my boob, another fisted in my hair, and the slap-whoosh rhythm of the ventilator.
Disentangling him isn’t worth the challenge and, if I can just get past the sound of the machines, I’ll take the continued sleep. I can’t call it rest. Not with my mind whirling.
I’d keep fighting to sleep, except three staffers enter and the overhead lights snap on. I guess they assume we’re all in a coma. Check that.
Even I’m not ready for that kind of humor.
“Good morning,” I offer, sliding my body off the mattress, head still on the pillow, gently prying Colt’s fists from my hair. I buttress him with a couch cushion where I vacated and stand to full height, rumpled and exhausted. “I’m Brighton Ranger. That’s my dad.” It sounds childlike, even to my ears.
“Good morning.” The doctor dips his chin and studies his tablet.
He scrolls and hums a few times, before looking at the nurse in the group. “You’ve double checked these records? The numbers are accurate?”
“I have. They’re accurate and consistent with his checks since he arrived.”
“Mind telling me what you’re discussing?” The ask is quiet but probing. They’re having a conversation right in front of me in coded language, and I’m far more invested in Pop than any of them ever will be.
“Well, Miss Ranger,” the doctor starts. I don’t correct him with my accurate title. His debt is greater and no doubt he assumes my DVM doesn’t warrant his deference.
“Medically induced comas are typical for traumatic brain injury. But we show no TBI or seizure activity or traces of drug usage. Any idea why they would take these measures?”
“He has a history of high cholesterol and has been under higher stress than usual. But that doesn’t address why you’re asking about values accuracy…”
The door opens, and Eli walks in, surprised at the full house. He comes to me, handing me a coffee, and kisses my cheek. “Morning, darlin’,” he whispers, before wrapping an arm around me. He turns to the team. “Sorry for the interruption.”
The doctor looks between us. “And you would be?”
