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Or maybe she’d have wound up on that island off of NYC where they buried the unclaimed. Did they do that anymore… or was she confusing an historical article she’d read on the train with current practice—
“Dr. Peters, paging Dr. Peters,” came from the overhead speaker. “Please come to the triage station.”
Dr. Peters had had a busy night. Someone always seemed to want him.
Sliding off onto the cool linoleum, she winced and hobbled over to the chair. As she took off the johnny, she shivered, and she tried to be quick about the redressing. Her hands were sloppy, though, and her shoulder was more of a problem than she’d have thought, especially with the bra. And jeez, her body was a patchwork quilt with all of the gauze patches on various impact areas.
Eventually, she managed to get dressed, but it was weird. Her clothes seemed to fit differently, the skirt and shirt like a stranger’s even though they were the same things she’d put on hours ago. She was also a little cold, but there was no way in hell she was going to try and get her red sweater fully on. With the stiffness continuing to intensify, she’d have to cut herself out of the pullover by the time she got home and tried to get into bed—
As she went to tie it around her waist, she froze. Smudges of blood marked everything she had on. There were tears in her clothes, too.
And only the one shoe.
Steeling herself, she picked the thing up and pulled back the curtain. The mystery man was standing at the split and facing outward, like he was a bodyguard. And as he immediately turned around, he took her elbow.
Like he was worried he might have to sweep her off her feet again.
“How do we check out?” she mumbled as she did her best to keep her own balance.
“It’s all taken care of.”
Thinking back to that exchange before the doctor had departed, she had a feeling that “Rob” had refused to charge them—
All of a sudden, an emergency exploded down at the far end, the curtain agitating around the last treatment bay across the aisle, the booties and scrubs-clad calves of doctors and the white skirts of the nurses shifting around as people traded places at the bed. On the floor, bloodstained tufts of discarded gauze and sponges bounced like grim little balls, a reminder of how some things could not be fixed.
“Come on,” the man said in a low voice. “Let’s go.”
Relying on his arm and moving slowly, Anne allowed herself to be led out into a broad corridor that dissolved into the registration desk, triage area, and waiting room. As it was just before midnight, the glass windows that ringed the open lobby were like the surface of a piano, glossy and black, the whole world blocked out by the night, a secret that seemed threatening.
“I’m going to be okay,” she said hoarsely.
“Of course you are.”
At least one of them believed her, Anne thought as they continued along, the halting and the lame-ing only on her side of their marching band. Meanwhile, people wilting from wait looked over from rows of seats that were screwed down into the floor, their envy that she’d been processed as palpable as their exhaustion.
And just as she’d clearly jumped the line and gotten preferential treatment, now there was no paperwork or discharge payment collected from her. It was like she’d won the ER lottery in too many ways to count, but she was too tired to argue the manufactured good fortune anymore.
Not that the man at her side would be willing to explain any of it.
At the entrance, the automatic whirring doors paddled in their glass-and-steel corral like a bread mixer, and she was glad that the man fed her into them. She was struggling with focus, although not because of any head injury. At least she didn’t think it was a concussion.
Nah, it probably is a concussion, she thought as she touched the bandage at her temple.
Oh, wow. It was raining lightly and things had gotten chilly in the way spring could sometimes.
“Jesus. Took you long enough.”
Anne blinked. Off to the left, a maroon sedan was parked at the curb and running, its taillights glowing red, a little drift of exhaust curling from its tailpipe. The driver from before was leaning out his window, his thick neck straining as he looked back at her like she was a pickpocket who’d taken his wallet. His tufts seemed even more frizzy, as if he’d been rubbing his head with a static balloon.
“Will ya get in already? He gave me a hundred-dollar bill, not ten of ’em.”
Anne turned to her mystery man. “What is—”
“You can trust him.” The man went over and opened the rear door. “He’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”
