The scent of sterile commercial cleaner combined with the rot of sickness to burn Lathan’s nose. Hospital. He was in a hospital—they all smelled the same. What was he doing in a hospital?
Burning. Aching. Thrumming pain in his chest. Junior shot him. Hurt Honey. The memories flared through his mind, giving him a tail fire of adrenaline. He bolted upright. Something violent and wrong ruptured inside his chest, stealing his ability to suck air. He fell back, clawing at the bandage over his heart. His vision frayed around the edges. Consciousness became a disintegrating string, but one he clung to by sheer resolve.
Motionless on the thin mattress, he forced oxygen into his lungs, then pushed it out. Didn’t matter how much pain he was in; he needed to find Honey. The Strategist could be torturing her at this very moment. He needed to find her. He was the only one who could save her. No one else.
A nurse entered the room and spoke to him, but his brain was on turtle speed and couldn’t process the movement of her mouth. She checked the bags of fluids plugged into his body. The moment she turned to check the monitors, he ripped out the tubes tethering his hand—felt no pain. Except for the constant roar in his chest. Blood dripped down his fingers. The scent of it triggered cruel memories of pain, both physical and mental, at having to watch Junior hurt her and being fucking helpless.
His ears picked up frantic sounds from the nurse, and then she was reaching for him. He batted a floppy—not quite cooperating—arm in her direction, then tried to stand. She pressed a button on his bed and started yelling. He wasn’t even trying to listen to her.
Honey. Find Honey.
His legs were rubbery underneath him. You will do this. Honey needs you, and you’re not letting her down because your fucking legs feel weak. He took a lurching step forward, nearly fell, grabbed onto the bed. Pain wrestled him, squeezing, cinching tighter and tighter. Water drenched his face—sweat or tears; he didn’t know which.
Whatever he was going through was nothing—fucking nothing—compared to what she was enduring. Or, had the Strategist already killed her? Lathan couldn’t breathe past the thought.
People rushed the room, rushed him. Hauled him back into the bed as if he were a wayward toddler.
Exhaustion weighed heavy underneath his skin. He could fight it, but not everyone else too.
“No. No. No. Need to find her.” He shouted the words, but wasn’t certain they came out coherent or a garbled mess. The first restraint lashed his wrist to the side of the bed. He thrashed. A restraint on his ankle. He lashed out. Someone caught his arm. “Stop. I need to find her. Don’t do this.”
Suddenly, Gill and his parents stood at the foot of his bed.
Mom’s perfume was no less noxious, her attire no less formal. The only thing different was that she no longer disguised the look of disgust on her face behind her snooty rich-woman mask. His parents had been through too much with him to see him as anything more than an aberration, a problem, a disturbed person. And this just reinforced their view.
Dad tried to catch Lathan’s remaining free leg. He kicked out, avoiding his father’s hands, and focused on the only person who would help him. “Gill. Don’t let them do this. Don’t. I’ve got to find her.”
Gill’s attention was grabbed by the nurse speaking to him and then by Lathan’s mom, who kept gesturing at Lathan like it was his fault he’d gotten shot and ended up in the hospital. Gill glanced back at Lathan and said something, but Lathan’s brain couldn’t translate the words.
“Can’t read your speech. The Strategist has her. The Strategist. The Strategist.” He kept repeating the name, trying to be articulate, hoping Gill understood. “I’ve got to get out of here. Find her.”
Mom started signing the moment Lathan said he couldn’t read Gill’s speech, but nothing Mom could say would ever be as important as what Gill had to say right now. He focused on his friend.
Gill switched to their teenage bastardized version of sign. The Strategist?
Lathan nodded. Dad caught his leg, held it firm while a nurse tied Lathan’s ankle to the bed. Gill began loosening the bonds on Lathan’s wrists and barked a nasty something at one of the nurses and finished unleashing his hands.
“Junior shot me. I killed Junior. The Strategist took Honey.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. How? Why? Gill signed.
Those were questions that needed to be answered, but not now. “Need to find her.”
Everyone’s looking for her. Thought she shot you.
“Help me up.”
Bullet in your chest.
“Don’t care. I can track the Strategist.”
Gill gave a quick nod. He unlashed Lathan’s legs. Lathan swung them over the side of the bed. Unconsciousness snuck over him. He was out before he hit the floor.
*
The reflection of a dim orange light pulsated in the dark hospital room. Lathan idled, motionless. The ethereal dream of Honey still wrapped him in its comforting embrace—him, her, tangled together. One entity. Floating in a place not in the vertical plane—no past, no future, only them.
The peace of the dream faded. Reality intruded. Deep internal pain began drilling into his chest, but it wasn’t as intense as it’d been before. He felt… Better wasn’t the right word. Stronger, maybe.
Gill slept in a chair next to the bed, his suit jacket over him like a blanket. All the previous shit between the two of them seemed so paltry and stupid. Gill had always been there in the most hellish moments of Lathan’s life. This time was no different. A true friend. Better than the people he was attached to biologically.