To hell with squirrels in his linen closet—there was a troupe of them cartwheeling through his mind. Felix jostled around in the back of the town car. Anxiety, outrage, terror, shame—which was stronger? How could you mend a broken personality? Wasn’t that the core of your being? Did it mean that inside he was defective and contaminated? Rotting away?
And there had been no update from Max about the CT scan. Felix needed those results. He needed to know Harry was okay.
The moment the taxi pulled up alongside the hospital, Felix had to stop himself from opening the door to vomit in the gutter. His hands shook as he paid the cabbie and texted Max.
I’m here.
Max responded with a smiley face that seemed slightly deranged.
Where are you? Felix typed.
Some room off the ER.
Not exactly helpful, but it told him enough. Felix catapulted into an emergency department for the third time in six weeks.
“My son, Harry Fitzwilliam—” He started talking before he reached the check-in desk. Or rather, yelling. He stopped in front of the counter and took a breath. “My son, Harry Fitzwilliam, was brought in five hours ago with a concussion, and I’ve just flown here from North Carolina.” He paused to catch his breath; the bug-eyed receptionist smiled but did and said nothing. He flipped open his wallet, pulled out his driver’s license, and pointed at his name. “I need to see Harry Fitzwilliam. Right now. He’s a minor. You’re treating a minor and I’m his father and I need to see him. Right now.”
“Yes, sir.” She consulted her clipboard. “Love the accent. Are you from Great Britain or Australia?”
“London. Where’s my son?”
More consultation of the clipboard. “I’m saving up for a trip to England. I hear it’s very expensive, and I want to see the whole country.” She glanced up, her index finger marking a spot on her list. “I think five days should be long enough, don’t you?”
Good God.
“Did my son come in with anyone?”
“Another kid. I believe he’s still here.”
“How about a campus cop?” Felix clenched his right fist. “And a female student?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir. Do you have any recommendations for restaurants in London? Decent food, not too expensive.”
“No. Is he through here?” Felix walked toward a door.
She leaned over her counter. “Hold on, there! I need to buzz you in first. Then turn right, and it’s the third door on the left. How about hotel—”
Felix ran.
He opened the door without knocking. Max was sitting in a chair pulled up close to the bed, watching Harry sleep. A very pale Harry.
“Is he okay?” Felix whispered.
“Just dozed off, but I’m timing him. If he’s not awake in”—Max glanced at his phone—“another ten minutes, I get to slap life back into him.” Max grinned. Even when he smiled, Max was one ugly mongrel, and Harry was blessed, so blessed, to have him as a best friend.
Felix put his briefcase down quietly on the floor, yanked off his tie, and shoved it in his pocket. Then he tugged off his coat and dropped it onto the other chair. Since when had the lining been ripped? Ella had been pressuring him for years to donate the coat to Goodwill, to splurge and buy a new one, and he’d always argued it had years of wear left. Was this a marker of OCPD frugality? Would he suddenly question everything he did, search constantly for flaws in his behavior? Not now, Felix. Shelve the thought. He stretched out his neck.
“You’ve been brilliant, Max. Thank you.”
“Here—” Max gestured to the chair. “You sit, Mr. FW.”
Harry stirred.
“He’s been drifting in and out. I’m not sure if it’s the concussion or the shock.”
“When did the doctor last visit?”
“A while ago.”
“Have you eaten?”
Max shook his head.
“Are you hungry?”