He just watches me, fierce and true, holding me in the strong container of his hand.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. I’m suspended in his grip, a stunned rabbit, caught in a cloud of shivers.
Patient 34. Really with me.
My gaze falls to his steely, sinewy hand gripping my latex-covered one. Our hands form a defiant knot against everything normal.
My chest softens. My sobs calm. Suddenly I can breathe again.
I look back up at him. “You’re here.”
He just watches me. I have this sense we’re the only two people in the universe. I have this sense that his hand holding mine is the only true thing in this place. The only thing that has weight in a world that’s spinning off its axis.
He shifts his hand, gripping stronger, harder, conflict raging in the fire of his eyes.
Some wild part of me doesn’t want him to let go—ever.
Don’t let go.
“You’re here,” I repeat.
Silence. Again I get that crazy sense he’s angry, somehow. Or maybe “anger” isn’t the word. He’s a dangerous fire, flames licking my core.
I could call out. I could hit the cart alarm. It’s the last thing on my mind.
“You’ve been here all this time.”
“No,” he whispers. “I’m not here.”
Breath whooshes through me. This really is happening. I wait, but he says nothing more. I simply dwell in his harsh, strong hand. He has me.
I shouldn’t need that, but I do.
Suddenly the fire goes out of his gaze. He lets go of my hand. He turns back up to the ceiling.
“Wait! 34!” I whisper. I want him to come back. “It’s okay. I won’t—”Won’t what?
A scrape behind me. The door opens. It’s Raimie, one of the nurses. “I’m out of kits. You mind?” She grabs a few of the draw kits I put together. “God, you’re behind.” With that, she swoops out.
I look down again at 34. He’s got the zombie act going again. “She’s gone,” I say softly.
He doesn’t react.
“It’s cool now.”
Nothing.
“Seriously?” I wait, wanting him to come back. But why would he? My blood races. I don’t want to leave.
I have to leave.
With trembling fingers, I punch in a fake number for his blood pressure.
I turn back to him. Staring at the ceiling. “Thank you,” I say. The thank you comes from my heart—I hope he hears that.
I straighten my stuff and push out.
Chapter Seven