Page 124 of Distress Signal

Looking around the room at my siblings and mom gathered, I realized she meant that, and they all thought it. None of them would be here otherwise.

“Finn?”

I rose and turned in the direction of the voice, finding Sonya, a nurse who had worked here for most of my life, standing in the doorway.

“Is she okay?”

Sonya nodded. “She’s asking for you.”

Without another word, she left, and I rushed to follow her.

“She’s really okay?” I asked when I caught up.

“Yes, but she did sustain a few injuries. I’ll let her explain it all.”

As long as she was breathing and would make a full recovery, I didn’t give a fuck.

Even better news was that she wasn’t in a private room, which meant they wouldn’t need to keep her for observation. Instead, she was in a bay of the ER. When Sonya pulled the curtain back, I found Reagan laying on the bed in a hospital gown, looking so small and ghostly pale against the bright white sheets. An equally stark bandage wrapped around her head.

“Belle,” I murmured, rushing to her side and taking her hand in mine.

“Soldier,” she replied softly, eyes instantly welling.

“Shh,” I breathed, cupping her face and brushing the fallen moisture off her cheeks. “You’re okay.”

“I was s-so scared,” she whispered, her teeth chattering.

“I’m here, baby. I’ve got you.”

“Miss Lindsey?”

“Yes?” she said to the doctor, eyes not shifting from my face.

“Your tests came back clear, so the good news is you don’t have a concussion or any other brain injury.”

“What’s the bad news?” I asked.

“Unfortunately, based on the x-rays, surgery will be required to properly set her broken arm.”

“Surgery?” Reagan croaked in disbelief. “It’s that bad?”

“Afraid so. You snapped both your radius and ulna. The radius is the one that came through the skin, but the x-rays showed some bone fragments floating around in your arm. A surgeon will need to go in, clean those up, and set the breaks with pins.”

“Fuck,” Reagan breathed.

The doctor, at least, appeared sympathetic.

“Is that something you can do here?”

Doc shook his head. “She’ll have to go up to Boise.”

Reagan’s eyes widened, face draining impossibly further of blood.

“I don’t want surgery.”

“I’m sorry, Miss Lindsey,” Doc said, though she’d been speaking to me. “I’m afraid we don’t have any other options.”

“It’s okay,” I told her, trying to reassure us both. “You’ll go under, they’ll clean you up, and you’ll come out good as new.”