“Seems so,” Denny said.
“Funny how we come to depend on every volunteer,” the priest said, frowning. “What should I do? Doors open in forty-five minutes.”
“Peel some potatoes?” Denny suggested. “I’ll help.”
“Let’s go.”
I looked over the serving station, which was already set up. And then the oven timer buzzed, so I donned an oven mitt to check the first batch of chicken legs. That first night when Jude had appeared, we were serving this same meal. I’d been comically distracted by his presence. And now I was distracted by his absence. I had the sinking feeling that it would always be this way between us. Tortured.
Damn you, Jude.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Jude
Cravings Meter: 0
Beeping. That was the first thing I heard. I didn’t have anything in my room that made that beeping noise. So where was I?
For a few minutes, I forgot to worry about it. I was just so groggy, and drifting felt good. Although I felt some pain in my side, the ache lacked sharp edges. And I lacked sharp edges. Everything was liquid.
Except for that beeping sound. And the voices in the background.
Voices?
I opened my eyes and saw a grid of unfamiliar ceiling tiles. The walls in my peripheral vision were white. I tried to place the voices in the background, but they were indistinct. And then I heard an amplified voice over some kind of loudspeaker. “Paging Doctor Weaver. Doctor Weaver to the fourth-floor data center, please.”
A hospital. I was at a fucking hospital.
That woke me up enough to remember some of what had happened. Those goons at the garage had kicked the shit out of me, and now I was in the emergency room.
Shit.
I closed my eyes again and tried to take inventory. My head was foggy. Things hurt. My right arm, for one. It was bound up somehow, so that I couldn’t move it. I also had pain in my left side. I wasn’t wearing my clothes anymore. My legs felt bare beneath the sheet they’d put over me. And something was stuck to my left hand.
Opening my eyes, I turned my head gingerly to the left. Indeed, there was tape on my hand. I spied a thin tube running from the taped part of my wrist and upward. By craning my neck, I could see that the tube ran to an IV bag hanging from a pole. Inside the IV bag was a clear liquid. Fluids.
Something bothered me about this, but it was hard to say what. My focus on these problems was pleasantly blurry. I let my eyes fall closed again, floating on my own drowsiness. I felt peaceful.
I felt drugged.
My eyes flew open again. Wrenching my head to the side, I peered up at the IV bag again. There was a tag on it, but I couldn’t read it from here. Didn’t matter, though. I already knew what was in the bag.
“Fuck!” My voice was hoarse from disuse. I tried to move my right arm to grasp for the tube in my left arm. But my right arm was held tightly against my body with a sling. And even trying to move it caused a shooting pain in my forearm. “Ah,” I gasped, surprised by its intensity.
My heart began to pound, and I tasted bile in my throat. Fucking painkillers. I’d had six months! Six whole fucking months. And some asshole doctor just fucked me over. The back of my throat began to burn.
Turning my attention to my left wrist, I gave it a good tug. But the tape held. I gave it another yank, and the result was not what I’d hoped for. The IV tower tipped toward me, hitting the bed and then slowly sliding to the floor with a crash.
A woman in nursing scrubs came running at the sound. She looked at me and frowned. “Mr. Nickel. You’re awake. What happened here?”
I lifted my left wrist. “Take it out. I can’t have painkillers.”
She leaned over for the IV stand, righting it quickly. “You had surgery, Mr. Nickel. The doctor had to remove your spleen, because it was ruptured.” She put a hand over the IV tape at my wrist. “I know it’s a lot to take in.”
I yanked my wrist away. “You don’t understand. I can’t have narcotics. I’m an addict.” I could feel that shit swimming through my veins, too.
“What’s the problem here?” A clean-cut young man came into the room wearing a white coat with Dr. Flemming stitched onto the pocket. Really? The teen doctor was going to help?
Fuck me. “I had six months clean,” my voice wobbled as I tried to explain. “Now there’s smack in my arm.”
Teen doctor’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”
My eyes were hot now, from anger or frustration or what-the-fuck-ever. “Get it out,” I said, lifting my head. If I sat up, maybe they’d hear me. “No narcotics for me. I’m an addict.” How many times did I have to say it? I struggled upward.