CHAPTER 5

AMANDA

Would you mind eating something other than hotdogs for lunch and supper, Bradley?

I had just placed the white plastic dinner plate cover on the nightstand when the familiar voice causes me to shiver.

The police.Shit.

My eyes flit across to the platter that Nurse Amy had just placed in my lap.

She had helped me get up earlier so I could use the loo, and as soon as my legs gave out beneath me, I realized I wouldn't be able to flee anytime soon. I would have been on the ground with no concept of how to get back up if she hadn't been there.

So even though I don't have any leg injuries, a week of inactivity has made me feel as though I have.

She not only assisted me in using the loo, but she also got rid of the beeping device. The police are going to see the beeping equipment is gone and they'll know my condition has altered enough for them to stay, even though I still have the morphine drip needle inserted in the back of my hand.

"They have ketchup on them, and everyone knows that ketchup is a fruit."

As the footsteps get closer, my heart begins to race. My name and what happened on the bridge haven't exactly been pressed upon anyone at the hospital, but I can't avoid the police asking such questions.

One spray of ketchup is insufficient.

"Officers," Dr. Trevor says calmly. "I see you're back again. Is there anything I can do to be of assistance?

I regain my breath when the footsteps halt. I begin to consider how far I am from the window. My sole view is of distant big buildings, which makes me almost certain that I'm on at least the fifth level. In addition, I still have the needle hooked to the back of my hand that I need to rip out.

Nevertheless, none of that prevents me from discreetly transferring the tray to the side table.

The steps advance. Just dropping by to see whether she's awake, doctor.

I shiver. Oh no, they just stepped outdoors. What shall I do? Delete the tray? Under the bed, conceal?

Saying "I'm sorry, who?"

What?

"Jane Doe from the bridge,"

A protracted pause. "Give me a second, please," I hold my breath as the paper rustles.

Doctors can't possibly just abandon their patients like that. And certainly not this person, who already came to give me more pain medication after the nurse left a message saying I wasn't eating because I was in too much pain.

"Oh, absolutely. Jane Doe who was on the bridge. It's been a long day, I apologize. These 12-hour shifts are brutal, he claims.

A policeman chuckles. Yes, being a police officer is not an easy job. Thus, the girl... I recall the tray in my hand and start getting rid of it when a large tread moves in my direction.

"We've sent her in for a brain scan with the neurologist."

I focus on my locked door instead of my tray.

He just came in, and he made no mention of a neurologist.

Why does he lie to the police about me?

"A neurosurgeon. Sounds important.

"It might be. However, a crash like that can cause damage that only a scan can find.

When will you have further information?

They accept him.

Amanda, of course they believe him. He's a physician. What police officer would believe a doctor would be lying to them?

"Within a few days. Please feel free to drop by again. If you have a card that I can use, or...

Steps are taken away. Oh, we're coming back. I heard you say a few days.

Dr. Trevor repeats, "A few days. "I couldn't help but listen in on your discussion of hotdogs. You must be referring to the Fifth Avenue Geller stand, right? The best are available there.

I told you Gellers was the best, Ferdinand; see. I've been attempting to convey it to him. As the voices leave my room, I stand there staring at the door, wondering what the heck just happened.

I remain still even after I can no longer hear them. I should be leaving right away, but Dr. Trevor just gave me two days to recover—time I really need.

He'll return after the police have been removed, and I have a question for him that, if I don't ask it, will eat me alive.

* * *

You omitted saying that I was awake. As I have done ever since Dr. Trevor knocked on my door and entered my room a few minutes earlier, I speak while focusing on the plastic tray in front of me.

The small yoghurt bottle, the soup, and the bread roll are all simple to recognize. Less so is the dark stew-like material on the plate.

I was raised in New Jersey. Served my internship at an Atlantic City hospital.

I look at him with amazement since I fail to understand how his upbringing is at all pertinent to our discussion.

He appears at ease as he leans back against the window's adjacent wall with his arms crossed over his chest. a state of comfort. The Atlantic City Marina District located in New Jersey. Have you been before?

I retort with a no.

He carries on in the same informal manner. How many individuals were rescued from there and brought to our hospital on average each week, I asked?

I reject again, shaking my head.

"Ten. occasionally twenty, if it were a holiday. He chuckles wryly as he shakes his head. Give folks alcohol and time off of work, and all of a sudden they believe they are capable of swimming despite never having done so before. I've lived here for five years now. Do you know how many patients paramedics transport each week after they drive off the Lancaster Bridge?

I can see where he's trying to go with this. Once more, I shake my head.

"One. And it never happens by chance.

My focus shifts back to my dish. I pick at the brown stew to determine whether it contains pork, chicken, fish, or another type of meat.

"I can tell you had a hard life because of the malnutrition and the scars on your back, neck, and wrists."

My left wrist is tucked under the blanket. The bandage that covers the scar most of the way almost reaches my forearm, but the want to cover it still exists. I don't believe. I simply do.

"Your right wrist has a scar. that is a little more difficult to locate. But I think it was caused by a shackle or other restraint pressing against bone for a long time. Am I near?"

I am silent throughout.

He resumes speaking in the same cool, unflappable tone after a little pause. You might therefore have an excellent reason for wanting to drive into the river, possibly a better one than everyone else who has done so previously. especially if you were travelling with a stranger. But that does not imply that I concur. Alternatives are always available. We have a fantastic social worker and psychiatrist in this place. Maria. She is a friend as well, and I can attest from personal experience that she is a superb listener. If you wish, I can send her up at any time.

If I told him there were wolf shifters in the world and that once they've decided to keep you, there is only one way to get away from them, I'd be curious to know what he felt about those possibilities. And the counsellor? She would bolt after taking one glimpse at Darius's wolfish gaze.

"You asked me why I didn't tell the officers you were awake," he replies.

My curiosity causes my head to bob up. He ought to be supporting them instead of me.

It's tough to tell from his look, but I'm almost certain that he has some residual sadness in his eyes. "Not everyone in the world is a decent person. No matter what their titles or employment are. There are undesirable people around.

Does he say what I interpret him to be saying?

"Even the cops?" While I wait for his reaction, I hold my breath.

He straightens up after slouching.

Just as my remote did the night before, I shrink back into my bed while clutching my fork.

He comes to a stop. "Even police. The doctor continues, his voice gentle, "Doctors aren't immune either. The "Salisbury steak."

I flinch. "What?"

He gives my plate a nod. "The chef usually overcooks it, so no one ever knows what it is. But if you feel like digging around behind the Salisbury steak, you'll find some mashed potatoes. It is not as horrible as it looks.

He then turns and moves towards the door. He pauses at the door with his back to me. However, there are also some good ones.

He is not discussing the dinner.

I follow him and try to identify whose doctor he is as he steps out, closing the door behind him. the excellent or the terrible sort.

I obsess over the query until my tummy grumbles, telling me that it has been much too long since I last had a satisfying meal, and then I droop my head.

As he mentioned, the gravy is covered by a little mound of mashed potatoes. I consume some of the meat and gravy that I've spooned up.

I don't even have to chew the steak since it is so soft, and even though the gravy is a little salty, it is still good. I keep eating until my plate is empty.

AMANDA

The previous night, the medications must have done something to keep the dreams away, but now that I'm tucked in by Nurse Amy like a cocoon, the memories are all around me.

I look up at the gradually illuminating ceiling as sunlight from a new day pours through the flimsy tissue-like blinds covering my window.

Dad hasn't been in my dreams in a very long time. Months, most likely. The fact that I'm dreaming about him, however, may indicate that's where I should go. Or perhaps I'm just being as foolish as I was to grasp a random man's hand in the hopes that he would guide me to a better life.

I can still faintly remember a few of the dream's final moments. Our sun-kissed flesh glows in it as a ferocious sun bears down on us. I squeal for my father to put me down as he picks me up on his shoulders. When he makes threats to throw me in the lake next to our cabin, Mom laughs at us both. Mom's cough turned out not to be a winter cough at all during the previous summer vacation before it started.

The memory, which seems to have happened a very long time ago, makes my lips curl in a smile. No, of a past existence that seems to have happened to someone else because it is so vague and faded.

I'll be signing up for more of the same bottle-dodging, belt-whacking future that I previously fought so hard to avoid, but maybe when I tell him about my life, he'll recall the days when he was a good dad.

My grin dwindles.

Amanda, no. That person has left. Probably always. You once left for a good reason.

My dry eyes itch as more light enters.

The door opens groggily. I turn my head in its direction, tensing under the scratchy blankets and thin mattress. I find it hard to imagine anyone could have a good night's sleep without taking some wonderful, potent medicines to put them to sleep.

From the entryway, a blonde woman in her early twenties with brilliant eyes and braided honey-blonde hair smiles at me while sporting pink scrubs. Happy morning. I'm Olivia, a nurse. I wanted to check on my patients as I was just beginning my shift. I apologize if I woke you.

I try to make what I think is a smile with my lips. I wasn't awakened by you.

She approaches the threshold cautiously, her brow arched in worry. "You don't look like you've slept at all."

Ouch, my ribs. Once more, I let my voice lapse and let her finish the sentence.

Her scowl intensifies. "Let me find a doctor so I can...,"

And have my painkillers been raised such that I'm too groggy to concentrate? No.

I slap my forehead. It's not all that horrible. I believe that I merely rolled across it at night. I'm alright.

She doesn't think I'm real. Certainly not entirely. But she retreats from the space. So, try to get some more shut-eye, and I'll check in on you later, okay?

I nod. "Okay."

But after she leaves, I can't sleep. I spend the following few minutes making a list of everything I'll need to do to leave this hospital.