“On my count,” one of them says before counting to three. Then, I’m suddenly being lifted from the board and adjusted onto a bed.
After that, there’s a horrifying buzz of continuous activity all around me: lights shining right in my eyes, hands kneading my stomach, needles being poked in my veins. How many people are going to ask me my name, and whether I know where I am? And for the love of God, someone hang up a fucking calendar and circle my birthday, because every soul in this room has asked me to recite the date! I better get a parade every year now.
“It hurts,” I groan. I reach over to rub my arm, but someone stops me.
“We know,” is the only answer I receive—or maybe it’s the only one I hear, because I’m growing rapidly sleepier. I think the meds they gave me are finally kicking in. Heavenly.
My eyes rest, head pounding less than before. Words like “X-ray” and “fracture” swirl around me as I’m pushed down another hallway, though not quite as fast this time…I think.
The last thing I remember is the sadistic doctor from hell tugging and maneuvering my arm roughly—like it isn’t already broken and killing me, despite the meds. The fright, and obviously very low threshold for pain I’m newly aware I suffer from, has my eyes rolling back in my head.
And once again, everything fades to black.
Chapter 22
“Oh, Echo.”
I wake up to my mom worrying over me, her face tear-stained and puffy.
“Hi, honey. Welcome back, my darling girl.”
“Water,” I grate. It’s literally the most painful word ever to have clawed up my throat.
“I’ll get it!”
Sammy springs out of a chair in the corner, where I hadn’t even noticed him sitting, and rushes over with a cup and straw. “Small sips, Echo,” he instructs me. “Slow.”
Hmm, my little magic man might grow up to be a doctor. Seems he’s been memorizing every instruction the staff’s given, and I must say, he has an excellent bedside manner. The cold water’s not only soothing, but aids in my ability to muster up a grateful smile.
“Very good job,” my mom praises him as tears stream down her cheeks.
It’s then that I shift my gaze to my left arm, and sure enough, there’s a bulky cast covering it from my wrist to well past my elbow. And here I was just thinking my entire body felt heavy. I wiggle my legs and toes again, just to be sure, and they’re fine. That’s a huge relief.
“Mama,” is all I can say, silently questioning her further with what I know is a scared, baffled expression.
“Yes?” She takes my right hand in hers. “I’m sure you want answers. You’re in Mercy General. When we got home from dinner, you were—”
She gets choked up, and little Sammy pats her gently on the back.
“At the bottom of the stairs, out cold. I called the ambulance. I’m so, so sorry I couldn’t ride with you, honey. I had to stay with Sammy. Your father ran into the surveyor he’s been trying to get ahold of all week, and convinced him to go out to the new worksite tonight.” She covers her mouth and pinches her eyes shut, shaking her head. “He was just here, though—rushed straight over when I called him—but…”
“But what?” I ask as I look around, only just now realizing my dad isn’t anywhere in the room. “Is he okay?” My stomach seizes up, worst-case scenarios flying through my mind.
“Yes, yes, of course.” She squeezes my hand, and the worried cramp in my belly relaxes. “He just needed to run home, while they were putting on your cast.”
“Why?” I couldn’t be more confused. What is she not saying?
“To call the cops on those punk bastards!” Sammy spits out, obviously having also memorized my father’s words.
“Samuel!” my mom gasps.
“He’s right.”
My head jerks toward my dad’s voice as he walks into the room, the instinctual motion hurting like hell.
“How’s my girl?” he asks with a warmth in his tone I’ve never heard, coming up to the side of my bed. “Gave us quite a scare, young lady. But you’re gonna be just fine. My tough lil’ Echo.” He bends to kiss my forehead. “I love you.”
“W-what happened?” I ask, my voice still scratchy. “Punks?”
“Don’t worry about all that right now,” my mom says.
“No, please tell me,” I plead. “What happened?” I want to ask about Kingston, but think better of it when I see the flash of enragement cross my father’s face.
When no one answers me, I attempt to sit up, frustrated and in pain but determined.
“Echo, no, you need to relax,” my mother says as my father steps closer.
“Dad?” I ask. I lock my gaze with his, hoping to convey that I can handle the truth.
“You get too worked up, and I stop talking. Understood?”
I whisper my “Yes,” because I certainly don’t feel like nodding, or straining my voice more than necessary on simple answers.
“Kingston held a party at the pavilion,” my father tells me. “One with crap music blaring loud enough to wake up Mr. Stewart next door. And a bonfire, which he of course saw—when they woke him up.”