Page 132 of Past the Broken Bridges

They echo in my head as I’m driven away from the redhead who’s being looked over by the paramedics that take my place.

Chapter Thirty-Two

Sawyer

The sounds surrounding me are all too familiar—beeps from expensive machinery, quiet mumblings of nurses and doctors talking to patients, and wheels on linoleum as transport moves people in and out of rooms.

When I peel my eyes open, I’m met with dimmed fluorescent lighting. It takes a few moments before I adjust to it, blinking as reality creeps in. And the pain.

God,the pain.

There’s a heart monitor attached to my finger, an IV in my vein, and a thin gown on me I know I didn’t put on myself. Wiggling my toes, which are oddly as stiff as the rest of me, the warm blanket falls off to reveal a pair of purple socks that I know from personal experience have white grips on the bottom.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

It takes a few minutes staring at my body under the blanket to finally remember what happened.

“Oh God,” I whisper, nausea bubbling in my stomach as the crash comes back.

My heart rate on the monitor starts increasing as my brain replays the sound of crushing metal and glass shattering, the beeping erratic until the door opens and a petite nurse jogs in.

I’m able to get out, “Sick,” just in time for her to lunge for a garbage bin and stick it under my mouth before I empty the contents of my stomach into it.

It’s only after the kind middle-aged woman is wiping off my mouth that I realize I didn’t get any in my hair like I used to in the past when chemo got the better of me. The nurses in the oncology unit used to tell me it was a safe space—that I didn’t need the wig. But I felt far too naked, too vulnerable, without it.

Hesitantly, I reach up and brush my shaky fingertips along the short pieces of red hair attached to my scalp. It’s thin, fragile, but growing slowly day by day.

The nurse pulls the computer over to her and scans her badge to access it. “I’ll get you some anti-nausea medication in a moment. How is the pain on a scale from one to ten?”

Even though she’s right beside me, she sounds so far away. So distant. I have to blink a few times as she smiles softly at me to really find my words. “Six.”

Her eyebrows go up. “You’re strong,” she says with a shake of her head. “Can you tell me your name and date of birth, sweetie? I need to verify your information before I can order you medicine.”

“Sawyer Hawkins.” I swallow, my throat raw. “May 20, 1997.”

The nurse nods, scrolling on the screen, her eyebrows staying up as she scans something. “I need to go over some questions with you now that you’re awake, and then we can get you some more pain meds. Okay?”

I try finding a clock but can barely move my head without cringing at the stiffness settled into it. “What time is it?”

“Try not to move, honey,” she directs, placing a hand on my arm. “From the initial CT scan you went through when you first arrived, you don’t have any broken bones, but that doesn’t rule out sprains. The doctor thinks you have whiplash from impact. Your ribs are bruised too. Do you remember going through the tests and talking to our staff when you came in?”

The last thing I remember is Banks. Somebody took him away, and I couldn’t do anything but sit there. Frozen. In disbelief. People were yelling. Men in uniforms pointed toward other men in uniforms, rushing around. The lights flashing were so bright. My head hurt. My ears hurt. Everything hurt.

Then everything went black. Until now.

I don’t even remember getting out of the truck. Did I do it myself or did somebody free me? Was it Dawson or—

Dawson.A harsh feeling punches my stomach, but I don’t have time to think about it as the nurse starts explaining what happened after I got here.

“You were in and out of it. The doctor wants to redo a CT scan to double-check a few things after your bloodwork came back with some questionable results. You have a minor concussion, which is incredibly impressive considering how serious the accident was. You are very lucky, Sawyer. If you didn’t have a seat belt on, it would have been a different story.”

My ears ring, body shaking as I recall how many times my body was tossed around as the truck flipped. “Dawson,” I breathe, frantically looking at her. “I need to know if my friend Dawson is okay.”

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