Page 170 of Puck Prince

“Good thing we’re already at a hospital.”

“I’m in the business of saving lives; not ending them.” The driver’s words are dry, but I can match that.

“Then save the life of the victims.” I look at Callie, her hands crossed over her stomach even while she’s unconscious. “Not the people who put us here in the first place.”

We make our way—annoyingly slowly—through the melee, and finally the back doors are opened. They slide Callie’s stretcher out, and I start to try to stand, but someone holds me back.

“Hang tight, man. You need a stretcher, too.”

“I’m fine. I want to be with her.”

He gives me a sympathetic smile. It’s the same guy who appeared in my window. “They can’t help her if they’re worried about you. You’re helping us help her.”

If there was any argument that would get me to sit my ass down and do as I’m told, it’s that one.

I don’t like it, but I also don’t want to be in the way.

A second stretcher comes, and they wheel me out.

The press is relentless, shouting questions over the makeshift barricade security put into place. I just close my eyes and wait for thewhooshof the ER doors closing on them.

After a lengthy exam, some x-rays, and more happy juice—thank God for morphine—I’m stamped with a torn shoulder ligament and a split lip.

“Might wanna get those teeth checked out at your dentist,” the doctor says. “Your girlfriend broke her nose on your mouth.”

“Jesus.” Of course part of her injury is my fault. I mean, really, the whole fucking thing is my fault. “Can I see her?”

“She’s still in and out. We have to admit her.”

“She’s pregnant.” I’m sure they already know. Everyone else does. But I say it, anyway.

“She’s headed to radiology for an ultrasound now.”

This time, I don’t ask. I swing my legs over the side of my hospital bed and push to standing. “Where is she?”

The doctor knows a lost cause when she sees one and signs off on it.

Two elevators and a wheelchair ride later, a nurse parks me next to Callie’s bed.

Her eyes are closed, and I tell myself she’s sleeping, because the alternative is too damn depressing. I cover her hand with mine. The room is dark as the radiologist works.

When the probe presses her stomach, the machine whirrs and buzzes, like when you press a seashell to your ear. It’s like there’s an ocean inside of her.

“Is it okay?” I ask. “The baby?”

There’s a whooshing sound—faint at first, and then solid. The radiologist smiles. “There’s the heartbeat.”

I blink. “Whose heartbeat?”

“Your baby’s.”

I look at the screen and it hits me all at once.

It’s like the sonogram I held in my apartment, but in motion. A little hand pulled to a mouth. A small kick.

It’s a baby.

Mybaby.

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