Page 62 of The Photograph

Andoh God! Sickness rises in the back of my throat and I can’t turn, but large hands shift me as it all bubbles up and outof my mouth, running over the side of my face. I try to raise my arm to do fuck knows what, but it doesn’t want to lift up.

“Shit,” a voice says.

“Okay.” Another voice now. “We need to take him to hospital.”

The next thing I know a wet cloth is on my face and George is saying, “Dessy, Dessy, are you all right? They’ve gone to get a stretcher.”

Then I’m being rolled backward and forward and, oh God, more vomit comes up.

“Jesus Christ.”

A laugh.

“Your wife will love cleaning that, Chris.”

Then I’m moved sideways and some rough canvas is underneath my back, and everything starts to joggle about, lights bobbing above my head.Unbearable.Shiver after shiver rolls through me, but someone tucks something over me and I’m warm again.

More jostling and suddenly I’m inside a smaller space and a mask is slapped onto my face.

“Sit there,” a gruff voice says.

“Can I hold his hand?” Another distant voice.

And a hand grasps mine, and I contract my fingers around it, but nothing happens. Somebody squeezes my palm, and my eyes tighten and start to water, wet on my cheeks.

A sudden pain shafts up my left arm, followed by a cool sensation.

“I’ll just tape this in,” the voice says.

The hand squeezes again. “You’re going to be fine, Desmond.”

Steve. Thank God.More tears track down my face.

“He’s crying,” Steve whispers.

“Yeah, I feel like fucking crying, too.”

Then everything starts to move, and it’s the worst feeling in the world. I can’t suck air in fast enough. Bile rises up and I groan, trying to raise my hand to claw the mask off my face.

“He’s … he’s…”

“I’ve got it,” Not-Steve says.

A couple of hands drag me over onto my side, the mask is pulled off, and vomit pours out of my mouth. Through a haze I see it splatter across a blue rubber floor.

“Dammit,” someone says.

“You guys need to be more careful when you’re taking shit,” Not-Steve growls.

I don’t catch the answer before it all fades out again.

The next time my eyes blink open, it’s to the soft sound of whirring and a cream-colored machine with knobs and dials and a screen with green lines on it that looks suspiciously like a heartbeat monitor.Wow. Just like ER.Wait. I’m on my side. I attempt to roll backward only to find I can’t and then a voice says.

“Des.”

Steve.He was holding my hand.

“Steve,” I say, but nothing comes out of my mouth. I clear my throat and try again. “Steve,” I whisper.

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