The unit he operates out of is clearly where he lives, too, although the room he guides us to is immaculately clean and equipped with nearly every piece of hospital gadgetry he could possibly need, including a life support machine pushed back into one corner.
“Put him on the table,” he orders, rolling up his shirtsleeves. Carnie, Lacey and I heave Zeth up onto the table, and I try not to succumb to the overwhelming urge to throw up. Everything hits me all at once. I just screwed up any chance of continuing my career. I should never have run, but it was hard to refuse when everyone seemed so frantic and desperate to move. When it appeared that everyone had come to get me, to prevent Charlie from doing anything to harm me. I didn’t really have another choice.
None of that matters now, though. Not in comparison to the still form lying on his back on this stranger’s makeshift operating table. My heart feels like…it feels like it’s wrapped in barbed wire, and every time I breathe in and my chest expands, my heart swells and presses against that wire, and is pierced a little deeper. The caregiver in me wants to check Zeth’s vitals, to establish what’s happening with him, but I’m too damn scared. I’m worried about what I’ll find, and I’m worried about how it will affect me. It already feels like I’m on the verge of losing control; if I see for myself that he’s dying, I know exactly what will happen. It will be the end of everything for me. I’ve railed against it, and I’ve fought and denied it, but there was little point in even trying. I’ve fallen for this reckless, dangerous, terrifying soul, and now that I’ve realized it, I’m not ready to give it up.
I walk back out of the room, and head straight to where Lacey is sitting on a thoroughly worn leather sofa, staring into space. She looks traumatized enough already, but I’m going to ask one more thing of her. “Lace, what’s your blood type?”
Her eyelids flutter, and then she refocuses, looking up at me. “I don’t know.”
I exhale, closing my eyes and taking a moment. I’m type A; I already know that. I can only donate to people with the same blood type, or type AB. If Zeth’s type O, like half the freaking population of the world, then transfusing him with my blood could easily kill him. And now Lacey doesn’t know her blood type. If she’s AB, the holy grail of blood transfusions, it won’t matter what Zeth is; she will be able to help him anyway. The likelihood of that is almost nil, though. But giving Zeth Lacey’s blood is still our best bet at this stage. She’s his sister. Although that doesn’t necessarily mean they have the same blood type, it does mean they’re more likely to be compatible.
“Can I help him?” Lacey whispers, jarring me out of my panicking thoughts.
“We can only try,” I say. There’s no way I can steal more blood from the hospital, and it’s unlikely we’re going to find a better candidate.
I let the other doctor hook them up, and I don’t sit around to watch. I pace back and forth in the other room, fighting against the prickle of fear that I’m now more than well acquainted with. Lacey is whiter than a sheet once the blood transfusion is done. She comes and sits in the room with me, turning on the television, although she doesn’t watch it. The sound of The Simpsons playing in the background is just there to fill the silence, and I’m glad of it. It stops me from screaming.
Three hours later, Cade shows up. He’s wearing his cut and a dangerously irritated look on his face. “That bitch sure can drive,” is all he’ll say. After some prompting, he confirms that Michael took the brunt of the heat but that he got away and will come as soon as he can. He also confirms that as far as he or Michael can tell, Charlie wasn’t arrested. God knows what the psycho did to avoid that.
Cade sits down next to Lacey on the couch, and his eyes grow wide with surprise when she turns and curls herself up into a ball, nestling into his side. They only met briefly this afternoon, but he doesn’t know that Lacey’s simple need to be held sometimes overrides all forms of social etiquette. He takes it well, though; he shrugs at me and then puts his arm around her, and I feel like kissing him on the cheek.
It’s the middle of the night by the time Zeth wakes up. The doctor—his name is West, Cade tells me—comes to let me know. “He’s bandaged up tight and I’ve given him a sedative so he doesn’t try to move. You think you could try and not get him too excited?”
Cheeky bastard. I give West a dour smile and push past him into the room. Zeth’s bleary eyes are staring straight up at the ceiling while he frowns, slowly blinking against the light.
“You should know I’m pretty mad at you,” I whisper softly. Zeth’s head slowly rolls to the side like it’s heavier than a bowling ball. His lips pull into a lazy smile.
“I’m pretty mad at me, too,” he says. For someone who’s clearly been shot up with enough tranquilizer to sedate a small elephant, his speech is surprisingly unaffected. My heart pulls a little, aching in my chest.