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DR. MAZIE
A break! Did you do anything fun?
DR. JASON KING
Oh—I guess it depends on your version of fun. I just did a tour with Doctors Without Borders to in, uh, Sudan—
DR. MAZIE
Amazing. Well, I think I speak for everyone when I say I want to see more of you. Next time, on the Dr. Mazie Show!
32
Kenzi
I leave my number with Leonard King and tell him to call me when he’s made a decision. But from the pale look on his face, I’m feeling pretty good about it.
We’re in. We have to be in. Otto doesn’t have any other options.
And Mr. King doesn’t want his legacy, his hospital’s reputation, and his son’s name smeared across television on the Dr. Mazie Show, in front of millions of viewers.
Otto is exactly where I left him, sitting in his chair, kicking his legs back and forth. I give his shoulder a squeeze, and he pops up.
“Now can we go?” he asks.
“Yes. Now we can go.”
We head to the elevator and ride it downstairs. I numbed myself for my meeting with Mr. King, but now I’m starting to feel it—the panic rising in my throat, like bile.
My shirt is constricting, my lungs tight. I take in small, short sips of breath and unbutton the collar on my shirt.
“Mum?” Otto asks. “Are you okay?”
“Fine, baby. I’m just tired.”
The elevator dings and lets us out. I’m a horse with blinders, gaze straight ahead for the door, and all I can think about is escaping this hospital, escaping this island, so much so that I almost miss it when I hear—
“Kenzi?”
I turn to the voice, but I don’t recognize the man that stands before me. There’s something familiar about him, a shadow of memory hiding behind him, and I have to squint. “Um…”
He exhales on a laugh. “The summer of Blink-182. Catching fireflies. Dock boy.”
My heart nearly stops in my chest.
“Donovan—”
I rush to him and throw my arms around him. It’s been thirteen years. Thirteen years. And yet when I’m about to have a panic attack, stuck at a crossroads, there is Donovan.
Always there when I need him.
I didn’t know I needed him until I have my arms around him, and he has his arms around me, and we’re holding each other with a tightness that feels too familiar.
“Hey, stranger,” Donovan murmurs as we pull apart. “How long has it been?”
“About ten lifetimes,” I respond.
Donovan’s real hair color, it turns out, is cherrywood brown. The kind of brown that fluctuates between auburn or blond depending on the light. His curls are coiffed, and he’s arranged a perfectly faded stubble that accentuates his jawline and outlines his lips.
