“I know I don’t have to tell you,” he began, clearly intending to tell her anyway, “that your doctor is concerned about that. Three concussions in the last year, that’s not good, Naomi.”
She didn’t need Sam to tell her that. Right now, though, she didn’t care about head injuries, there was only one thing she cared about. “Who shot me?”
“I was hopingyouwould tellmethat,” he replied briskly.
“I don’t know.” She felt helpless, and she hated that feeling. That feeling was precisely why she never ever allowed herself time to dwell. When she kept on the move, she could avoid that sense of vulnerability that was always lurking at the back of her mind, ready to pounce and crush her.
Something began to beep.
With his gaze darting from her to something behind her bed, Sam’s grip on her shoulder tightened. His hand was on the shoulder she had injured a year ago, then again six months ago, the joint was still tender, and she flinched.
Immediately, he loosened his hold but didn’t release her. “You have to calm down,” he ordered.
“I can't remember.” She was panicking, her head no longer burned with pain now it burned with fear. She needed to know what had happened to her.
“Calm down,” Sam instructed. “Now. I mean it. Or I reallywillget that doctor back in here to sedate you.”
The threat was enough to snap her out of the dread-filled haze swamping her.
“Better. Working yourself into a frenzy isn’t going to help you remember, your pulse is through the roof.”
A doctor burst through the door. “Everything okay in here? Ms Candella, you're awake. How are you feeling?”
“Fine,” she answered distractedly. She focused on trying to force her memory to plug back in.
“You need to leave,” Sam told the doctor bluntly.
“I need to examine her,” the doctor protested.
“I need her to focus, you can see her in a minute. Please,” he added. Only Sam could make a nicety sound like a threat.
The doctor hesitated, his concerned gaze settled on her, but a quick glance at Sam and he caved. “Five minutes,” he conceded, then shuffled from the room.
“Naomi, look at me,” Sam commanded once they were alone.
She turned her head in his direction but stared straight through him. Why couldn’t she remember? So she had a concussion, so what? She’d had two others in the last year, and both times she remembered the events precipitating the head injury. Why couldn’t she this time?
“Atme, Naomi.” Sam grasped her chin firmly and gave it a shake.
The movement sent pain rocketing around her skull, and she couldn’t help but moan. At least the pain served some small purpose, momentarily redirecting her attention away from the hole in her memory.
The only apology Sam gave was to minusculely loosen his grip on her. “You remember going to bed last night.”
It wasn't a question, but she gave a mumbled assent.
“What time?”
Struggling to concentrate through the blinding agony in her head, she settled on, “Around eleven.”
Sam nodded approvingly. “Did you fall asleep right away?”
Sheneverfell asleep right away. It took her brain a good thirty minutes or so to sufficiently wind down enough for her to be able to sleep. “No.”
“Did anything wake you during the night? Did you have to get up to go to the bathroom?”
“Once around two.”
“You always have a shower first thing in the morning. Do you remember what clothes you put on?”