“Yes.”
She gives a tight laugh. “And instead of jumping for joy, we all pulled our weapons on him?”
“Except me,” I say, my voice still shaky. “I just shrieked.”
“It was a very small shriek.”
Storm approaches the motionless man and snuffles him.
“I believe the dog has a question,” Dalton says. “Like why are we standing here talking when there’s a dead man who isn’t actually dead?”
We’re all staring, as if waiting for him to lever up again, maybe give a zombie moan. Even as I crouch beside the man, Petra and Dalton keep their weapons aimed.
I pause over the man, overcome by indecision so strong I could almost laugh at the ridiculousness of it. I should be jolted into EMS mode, jumping in to evaluate his condition. I mean, he’s obviously alive and in need of medical attention. But I’m weirdly unsure of how to proceed. Talk to him? Shake his shoulder? See if I can wake him? Or just start a medical examination, risking giving him another jolt of shock, maybe one strong enough to stop his heart?
“Hey,” I say, tentatively, and to their credit, neither Dalton nor Petra laughs.
I lay my hand on the man’s shoulder and give a soft squeeze. “I’m here to help, okay?”
Again, it’s ludicrous dialogue. The guy isn’t dozing. He’s … Well, I don’t know what state he’s in, which is the problem. His eyes are half open, mouth ajar, and that is not the look of an unconscious man, yet he’s been that way since we arrived, which made us certain he’s dead.
Is he brain-damaged? In severe shock? I need my sister here. I really do. I’m looking at a man who has almost certainly undergone some sort of neurological trauma, and we have a neuroscientist in Rockton. But that doesn’t help when she’s a two-hour walk away, and he may be in severe medical distress.
I grip his shoulder tighter. “I’m going to examine you, okay?”
No response.
“Can you hear me?”
No response.
I adjust my position, shifting in discomfort. I’m certain I’ll make the wrong move, and both Petra and Dalton are relying on me to get this right.
“Is he definitely alive?” Petra whispers.
It seems like a silly question. We saw him sit up. I’m 99.9 percent sure that can’t happen as
a postmortem reflex, and now that I’m up close, I can see the artery pulsing in his neck. He is alive. But there’s physical death and there’s brain death. Is it possible that this man’s brain is only alive enough for that physical reaction to being touched?
I need April. I need her so badly, and I don’t care how much side-eye she’d give me for these questions. I’ll take it, if it means I don’t make a mistake here and shock-kill a living victim.
“He’s breathing,” I say. “That’s all I know.”
I raise my voice, as if hearing impairment might be the problem. “I need to examine you. I’m going to start by touching your head to check for skull fractures.”
That seems the most likely answer, given his mental state and the blood in his hair. With extreme care, I touch his skull, where there’s a thick clot of blood. I verbalize my every move—I’m going to touch your head, I’m going to clean this wound, I’m about to press a damp cloth to your forehead.
He doesn’t react until I wipe at the blood. Then his eyes fly open. That’s it. Just those open eyes, staring at nothing as I jerk the cloth away.
We all go still, no one even seeming to breathe. The man blinks. Once. Twice. I’m opening my mouth to speak when he croaks, “Is someone there?”
I ease into his line of vision, but he doesn’t react. Just that wide-eyed stare past me.
“Shit,” Dalton mutters.
The man’s head swings Dalton’s way, and then he pushes up onto an elbow.
“Hello?” the man says.