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A serious-looking man wearing thin, silver-rimmed glasses and a white lab coat is standing over me, examining what I assume is an important machine behind my bed. For some strange reason, the man reminds me of my high school chemistry teacher. A class I cut more times than I can count.
Why the hell am I thinking about that guy? He was an asshole.
It takes a while for me to comprehend where I’m at, but soon, it’s obvious that I’m in a hospital, although I’m not sure which one or why. Everything’s fuzzy in my head, but not in a good way, like when I’ve had a few too many glasses of whiskey.
“Welcome back, Mr. Middleton,” the man says in a perfunctory tone. “It’s been almost five days.”
Five days?
“Don’t try to speak because it will hurt like hell,” he advises. “I’m Dr. Wickoff and I performed your surgery a few days ago.”
My surgery?
“All the bullet fragments were removed, but you’ll probably continue to feel some discomfort. And we’ll need to keep the tubing down your throat for now.”
Bullets.
The doctor walks around to the other side of the bed, inspecting some other piece of machinery keeping me alive. “We’ve started slowly weaning you off the sedation medication, but we’ll need to keep you on oxygen support until you can breathe on your own.”
It infuriates me that I can’t respond to this man with words—this apparent surgeon with a bedside manner that needs a lot of work. Instead, I’m resigned to following him around the room with my eyes, hoping I will remember everything he is saying to me.
Eventually, a nurse enters the room and scribbles a few things on the whiteboard across from my bed. She and the surgeon exchange a few words I can’t hear.
“I’ll come back tomorrow to check on your progress,” he says to me, leaving the room.
The nurse turns and offers me what I believe is a genuine smile. “Glad to see you’re awake, Mr. Middleton. Your friend has been outside patiently waiting for days. Should I let him in?”
I try nodding so that she understands, but it’s difficult. My entire body feels weighted, and everything seems like a difficult task. I’m relieved to see a familiar face when Lars enters the room although it’s His under-eyes are hollow, as if he hasn’t had any sleep.
“Good to see you’re still in one piece,” he says, standing several feet from the bed, almost as if he’s afraid to approach any closer.
I offer him a slight smile to try and ease his clear discomfort with the situation, but what’s most important to me is to try communicating what I want to know from him with my eyes.
Where the fuck is Megan?
I want to make sure she isn’t in the state I’m in or worse.
“We haven’t found DiAngelo,” Lars offers. “I’m not even sure how that slippery fucker walked out of the club. Fabre must have him in a safe house somewhere.”
So DiAngelo shot me, and Fabre is behind it? What in the actual fuck. Why can’t I remember any of this?
I want to rip every hose and tube out of my body. This, not being able to talk shit, is torture. I have a million questions for Lars, and he’s spoon-feeding me information like I’m a newborn baby.
“Calm down, boss,” Lars says, noticing I’m becoming anxious—the heart rate monitor a dead giveaway. “You just woke up.”
He wants me to calm down? Has he just met me yesterday?
I manage to eke out one word, although it’s painful to do so.
“Megan.”
“I’m going to call her now. She’ll be excited to know you’re finally awake.”
Relief settles slowly in my bones. If she’s taking Lars’s calls, that means Megan must be okay.
“It may take her a minute to drive over from the club. Traffic is pretty bad right now.”
Why is she at the club? The safest place for her to be is in this hospital room with me.