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“Oh, yes. The Jane Doe from the bridge. Sorry, it’s been a long day. These twelve-hour shifts are a killer,” he says.
One cop chuckles. “Yeah, being a cop is no easy ride, either. So, the girl…” When a heavy tread moves in my direction, I remember the tray in my hand and resume getting rid of it.
“We’ve sent her to the neurologist for a brain scan.”
I forget about my tray and stare at my closed door.
He was just in here, and he said nothing about a neurologist.
Why is he lying to the cops for me?
“A neurologist. Sounds serious.”
“It can be. But a crash like that can do damage only a scan can reveal.”
“Any idea when you’ll know more?”
They believe him.
Of course they believe him, Saige. He’s a doctor. What cop is going to think a doctor would lie to them?
“In a couple of days. You’re welcome to stop by again. Or if you have a card that I…”
Footsteps move away. “Oh, we’ll be back. A couple of days, you said?”
“A couple of days,” Dr. Trevor echoes. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation about hotdogs. You must be talking about the Geller stand on Fifth, right? They have the best in town.”
“See, Ferdinand, I told you Gellers was the best. I’ve been trying to tell him that…” The voices move away from my room and I stare at the door, confused about what the hell just happened.
When I can’t hear them anymore, I still don’t move. I should make a run for it now, but Dr. Trevor has just bought me two days of recovery time, time I desperately need.
He’ll be back once he’s gotten rid of the cops, and I have a question for him, one that will eat me alive if I don’t ask it.
* * *
“You didn’t tell them I was awake.” I speak with my gaze on the plastic tray in front of me, much as I have since Dr. Trevor knocked on my door and entered my room minutes before.
The bread roll, the soup, and the small container of yogurt are easy enough to identify. The brown stew-like substance on the plate is less so.
“I grew up in New Jersey. Did my internship at a hospital in Atlantic City.”
I dart a surprised glance at him because I don’t see how where he grew up is in any way relevant to this conversation.
With his back against the wall beside the window and his arms folded over his chest, he looks relaxed. At ease. “In New Jersey, you have the Atlantic City Marina District. Have you ever been?”
I shake my head no.
He continues in that same casual tone. “Do you know how many people were pulled from it and brought to our hospital in an average week?”
Again, I shake my head no.
“Ten. Sometimes twenty, if it was a holiday.” He shakes his head with a wry smile. “Give people booze and time off work, suddenly they think they can swim even if they’ve never swum a day in their lives. I’ve been a resident here for five years. Do you know how many people paramedics bring in after they drove off the Lancaster Bridge in an average week?”
I understand where he’s going with this. I shake my head again.
“One. And it’s never by accident.”
My gaze returns to my plate. I pick at the brown stew and try to figure out whether it’s chicken, fish, pork, or something else.
