The quiet is suffocating and I finally clear my throat to speak.
“Canon, I—”
“Don’t, Neevah.” He peels the dress away from my shoulders, lifts me so I can kick it off completely. “No, you cannot finish filming. Yes, you’re going to the hospital. And no, you will not come back to this set until the doctor clears you to.”
He meets my eyes, the muscle in his jaw clenched. You could easily mistake his fierce scowl and tight lips for anger, but I see it for what it really is. For once, he’s not opaque. I see right through him.
I see his fear.
All my protests die on my lips and I nod, my heart clenching with the knowledge that he’s as scared as I am. He grabs the T-shirt and shorts I discarded this morning, puts them on me. He peels off his sweatshirt, which I’m sure I’ve stained, revealing a T-shirt beneath. He picks me up again.
“I can walk,” I mumble, though it may not be true. I can barely keep my eyes open, much less make my legs work. “This is hella dramatic.”
He doesn’t acknowledge the comment, but walks me off set to the parking lot. My feet never touch the ground, and I go from his arms to the back seat of his car. Takira runs up, her face streaked with worry.
“Oh, my God, Neevah,” she says. “I just heard what happened. Are you okay?”
“No, she’s not okay,” Canon answers, climbing into the driver’s seat and slamming the door. “I’m taking her to the emergency room.”
“Can I come?” she asks.
“If you can get in right now. I’m not waiting.”
She climbs into the passenger seat and Canon doesn’t even wait for her to close the door or fasten her seat belt, but lurches out of the parking lot with a squeal of tires. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles straining against the tight skin. Takira gasps and clutches the dashboard as he runs one light and then another. I can’t muster the energy or stir my voice to caution Canon he should slow down. Judging by the implacable lines of his profile, he wouldn’t listen anyway. I glance through the rearview window, down the road to the set and envision our replica of the French Riviera.
When will I be back?
WillI be back?
I want to commit the sight of the big equipment trucks and the cameras and wardrobe tent—every detail—to vivid memory, except I’m so tired I barely know my name, and despite my efforts, I fall right to sleep.