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I relaxed a bit at that. Zola, the assistant Brooklyn D.A. assigned to the case against Messina, was someone with whom I was friendly. We hadn't spoken since I'd moved back to Boston at the end of May, but I knew he was hoping my family would testify in a potential trial. So far, my father had resisted, worried about the level of protection the D.A. would be able to give him and Bubbe, but also resisting the obvious move out of New York that would happen if they had to go into protective custody.
However, three weeks ago, Bubbe had agreed to help me get Dad out of Brooklyn. Was that even happening now? Would she agree to come too, now that she knew our entire family were targets, not just her son? Brandon was sitting beside me, but I still had no idea where we stood. Was he still planning to help?
The question swirled in my head, making me feel dizzy. I pressed a hand to my forehead and grabbed for the cup of melted ice chips. Brandon watched with obvious concern.
"You okay?" he asked.
"Tired," I said automatically, and then realized it was very, very true.
Brandon's gaze flickered over me, then he turned to the doctor. "Is that normal? She just woke up."
Dr. Gibbons tucked the clipboard back into the holder at the end of the bed. "Perfectly normal. She's been through a trauma, and her body will need extra rest. They'll wake her again for the CT, but I'd say it's just fine if she wants to catnap."
I sank further into the pillow with welcome relief. Everything was so overwhelming––sleep felt like solace.
"It's okay," Brandon was saying beside me. "Rest. I'll be here when you wake up."
~
