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“The bullet missed the heart, but we’ll say the surgery was tricky.Vincenti’s very, very good. You’re young, healthy, and strong. And putting those factors aside, we can say, it wasn’t your time.”
“Three times.”
“Yes. And here you are, alive, awake, aware. Your vitals are good. You’re stable. If I’m a judge—and I am—we’ll move your condition up to good within the next twenty-four. Now, if you’re not too tired, and it’s okay if you are, the rest of your family wants to see you.”
“Yes, please.”
“Family makes a difference, too.”
Gently, Angie eased Sloan up and turned the pillow to the cool side.
“People who love you make a difference. And you’re loved. The call button’s right here if you need me. Dr. Vincenti’s on his way.”
Her father and sister came in. Her father, silver threads starting to gleam in his brown hair and trim beard, his green eyes sheened with tears, leaned over, pressed his rough, unshaven cheek to hers.
She felt him trembling, pulling in air to stop tears.
“I’m okay, Dad. They said I’m okay.”
“Scared the crap out of me, Sloan. Give me just a minute.”
While she did, she looked over his shoulder at her sister. Drea, face splotchy from recent weeping, her usual lustrous brown hair dull and yanked back in a careless tail, swiped at eyes as blue as their mother’s.
She took Sloan’s hand, smiled. Said, “Whew.”
“Sums it up.”
Dean Cooper lifted his head, then cupped Sloan’s face in hands as rough as his stubble. “Try not to do that again.”
“Okay, Dad.”
In a lifelong habit, he kissed her forehead, her cheeks, her lips. “I know you’re tired, and rest is what you need. But know we’re here.”
“I do.” She worked to clear the clouds from her brain. “Who’s minding the business?”
“We got it covered. Don’t you worry.”
“Plenty of people in Heron’s Rest were pulling for you,” Drea added. “And plenty of them pitched in to help keep things going.”
“And Joel? He’s our hero. You’re both heroes.”
She felt herself starting to fade, struggled to stay awake. “Did we get him? White male, mid-thirties, brown and brown… Did we get him?”
But she dropped off and didn’t hear the answer.
When pain slapped her awake again, Joel sat by the bed reading the worn paperback copy of Stephen King’sIthe always kept in his go bag.
Sloan remembered asking him why he kept that particular book packed. He’d told her it reminded him, when he was away from home, that whatever they dealt with couldn’t be as bad as Pennywise.
To test his theory, she’d read it herself and could only agree.
“Came close this time,” she mumbled.
He looked up, then set the book aside. “Hey there.”
“Did we get him?”
“Hit the button. You’re hurting.”