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“True,” the doctor said. “Hopefully, law enforcement can track down the attacker.” He glanced at the machine readout of her blood pressure. “Your blood pressure is elevated, and your pulse is racing.”
She snorted. “Wouldn’t your blood pressure and pulse be wonky if you lost a month of your life?”
He nodded and pressed his stethoscope to her chest. “Take a deep breath.”
Shelby inhaled and let it out slowly.
“Again,” the doctor said.
She complied, her pulse slowing.
The doctor straightened. “Heart and lungs sound good. Your CT scan was clear. No brain bleeding that we could detect. Now that you’re awake, we can check out the rest.” He had her move her arms one at a time. Then he turned to her legs.
The doctor touched his hand to her nearest leg. “Can you feel my hand?”
“Yes,” she answered, happy that she could.
He removed his hand from her leg. “Can you move your legs?”
Shelby looked up at him. “I don’t know. I haven’t tried.”
“Start by wiggling your toes,” he urged.
She lay for a long moment, concentrating on her toes. She imagined moving the toes on the right foot.
The doctor smiled. “Good. Now the other foot.”
She wiggled the toes on her left foot, more confident with each accomplishment.
“Excellent,” the doctor said. “Now lift your right knee.”
A little less mired in the swamp of her nightmare, she lifted her right knee and then the left. “Thank God,” she said as she lowered them to the mattress.
“Let’s get you to sit on the edge of the bed.” The doctor held out his hand.
Shelby gripped it.
Remy slipped an arm around her back. Between the two men, they had her sitting up with her legs over the side of the bed.
For a moment, her head spun. Shelby was thankful for Remy’s arm behind her back for the few seconds it took to get her balance and for the spinning to diminish. Finally, she nodded. “I’ve got this.”
The two men stepped back.
“You’re doing great,” the doctor said. “As soon as you can get up and walk down the hallway and back, you can go home. Someone will need to keep an eye on you for a day or two to make sure you don’t have any relapses.” The doctor frowned. “And to keep anyone else from attacking you.” He shook his head. “I’ve worked in this hospital for five years and never had someone try to smother a patient.” He held out his hand to Remy. “Are you her significant other?”
Before Shelby could respond, Remy said, “You could say that.” He shook the doctor’s hand. “I’ll make sure no one tries to hurt her again.”
“Good.” The doctor turned back to Shelby and repeated, “A walk down the hall and back, and you can go. The nurse will give you discharge instructions and what to look out for. Give yourself a couple of weeks before you return to duty.”
“A couple of weeks?” Shelby cried. “Do you know how shorthanded the sheriff’s department is in Bayou Mambaloa?”
The doctor shook his head. “No, but you don’t want to put anyone else at risk. No driving until after your follow-up appointment in two weeks.”
“No driving?” She blew out a frustrated sigh. “What can I do?”
The doctor smiled. “Let your body and your brain recover. You were out for forty-eight hours. You don’t want to pass out behind the wheel of a vehicle weighing more than three tons. At that point, the vehicle becomes a deadly hurtling missile, crushing anything in its path.”
“Okay,” Shelby said. “I get your point. No driving until I get your blessing.”
