Page 18 of Wanted

I squeak and scramble to yank the itchy blanket up over my chest. The wedding dress provides some coverage, but they had to cut off my jacket, revealing my bare arms and the scoop neckline. With narrowed eyes, I say, “Could I have some privacy?”

“Sorry.” He jerks his head back out. The curtain flutters aggressively into place behind him. “What possessed you to do that?” he asks from the other side.

“Desperation,” I sigh the simplest answer he’s going to get. It might be a lie, but I can’t remember anything concrete that would entice me to toss myself out of a moving vehicle.

When he speaks again, his tone is gruff. “Are you safe?”

“I thought we established I wasn’t going to answer any of your questions.”

“Would you be amenable if I said please?”

“I might be.”

His sigh is loud and long. “Can you please tell me if you’re safe?”

Something flutters beneath my sternum. “I think I’m safer than I was in that car.”

Physically, that is. The issue now is I have no money, nowhere to stay, no way to get home, and no job, along with a broken arm and an insidious throb in my head.

I close my eyes. “Is that enough?”

“For now.”

My jaw falls, but before I can press further, the curtain pulls open. With a scolding on the tip of my tongue, I swallow it down when a man in brown scrubs walks into the room.

“How are you feeling, Franklynn?”

I smother a sneer at the use of my given name. “Like my arm’s broken.”

Jude’s boots shift to the side outside of my room like he turned into the curtain to hear better.

“We’ll be able to fix the fracture with a simple hard cast. You’ll go home with a brace until you can get an appointment with the Orthopedist. Can you tell me what day it is?” The doctor stares at me intently.

“Uh, Tuesday?”

“And the month, please?”

“April.”

“You’ve had a headache?”

“Yes.”

“Any nausea or vomiting?” He pulls out a pen light and shines it across my eyes.

“A little nausea I guess.”

“Troubles with your eyes? Blurry vision?”

“I–maybe a little? I was more focused on my broken arm.”

“Unfortunately, I think you have more than a broken arm. Your CT was clear of a contusion or brain bleed, but your symptoms are consistent with a concussion. I suspect it’s mild.” He unwinds his stethoscope and presses the cold circle against my back. I startle. He continues as he listens to my heart. “Any issues with your memory?”

I pause. Then I lower my voice, conscious of the man on the other side of the curtain. “Um, a little. I’m having trouble remembering what happened… before I hit my head.”

“Unfortunately, that can happen with a head injury. Two days of strict rest should clear up most of your other symptoms, and you can return to regular activity once they’re gone. In the meantime, you can take acetaminophen for the pain.”

“Oh. Okay.” I shift uncomfortably. There’s no way I can rest for two days while I’m figuring out my next steps. Slap a cast on me and send me on my way. I can probably find my way to a bus and beg someone to cover my fare. But resting for two days without a bed?

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