Page 80 of Fallen Stars

Lifeless on the ground, I hear one of them say, “Let’s go.”

Then the world fades to black.

TWENTY-TWO

OLIVER

A consistent,dull ache reverberates in my skull. A thunderouswhoosh, whoosh, whooshechoes in my ears. I can’t think straight. Can’t hear anything except the deafening sound of my blood pumping.

Body stiff, I shift my arms and instantly regret it. A sharp burst of pain shoots from my fingers to my neck and upper chest.

I suck in a harsh breath between my teeth, my lungs expanding and pressing against my rib cage as a scorching knife pierces my chest over and over. Hissing, I curl my fingers into loose fists.

“Dušo?”

A hand rests on my shoulder delicately.

“My handsome dušo. Can you hear me?”

“Mama?” Her name is sandpaper on my tongue.

A shaky inhale, followed by a sniffle, filters through the whooshing in my ears. “It’s Mama, dušo.” She presses her lips tenderly to my forehead. “Papa went for coffee. He’ll be so happy you’re awake.”

I peel my eyes open and wince when dim light filters in. With slow blinks, my eyesight adjusts. Scenic prints in plastic frames hang on generic white walls. A small television is mounted highon the wall across from where I lie. Mint green curtains are pulled together over what I assume is a window. A machine with a screen is on my left, colorful lines and numbers on the display. A plastic bag with clear liquid hangs from a post, a thin tube at the base.

I follow the length of the tube with my eyes until it reaches the back of my hand. My gaze drifts to the white thermal blanket draped over my legs and torso to the rails on either side of the hospital bed.

Hospital. I’m in the hospital.

I glance up at Mama, take in the bruisy crescents beneath her eyes and her disheveled hair. It’s a rare occasion if Mama puts on makeup, styles her hair or spruces up her attire, but she always looks put together. Happy. Vibrant.

Right now, she is none of those things. Everything about her is different. Out of sorts. Unkempt. Dispirited.

“What happened?”

My brow furrows as I attempt to sift through my memory. The past several days are blurry and just out of reach. I close my eyes and force my mind to think, think, think.

“Tesoro?” Papa’s gentle baritone is laced with confusion as it drifts through the room. “Is everything okay?”

“He’s awake.” Deep affection and endless gratitude fill those two words.

The shuffling of feet makes me open my eyes.

Papa clambers across the room, setting two cups down and sidling up to the opposite side of the bed from Mama. His usually smooth jawline is peppered with thick black stubble. Beneath his eyes, dark half circles paint his olive skin. His hair pokes haphazardly in several directions, a complete juxtaposition from his everyday slicked-back style.

“Oliver,” he weeps my name. “I’m so happy you’re okay.” Tears glisten in his eyes a breath before one trails down his cheek. “We’ve been so worried.”

I repeat my question from minutes ago. “What happened?”

Papa hovers over me as his hand reaches out then pulls back. Uncertainty flits across his expression as he resists connecting with me physically.

“The police called just before three this morning.” Lifting a hand to his face, Papa wipes his eyes. “As the last employees left Dalton’s, they saw you unconscious on the ground in the parking lot.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as his chin starts to wobble. “You were covered in blood.”

I filter through his words with delicate precision as I try to piece together last night. Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath, ignore the sounds, pay little attention to my tender muscles and achy bones, and focus my thoughts. One at a time, memories trickle in.

Hailey’s Fire had a show at Dalton’s last night.

We were exhausted but happy to play.

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