Page 337 of Secret Shifters Next Door

“Stop that. When he wakes up, they’ll let you in to see him.”

When. Dad saidwhen, notif.I clung to that word, rolling it over in my head again and again on the drive back home. The more I said it, the more I tried to make myself believe that it was true.

Back home, I was shocked to see that the house was almost totally fixed up. It had been over a week. I’d slept, showered, and eaten at the hospital, not realizing they’d started fixing up the damage.

Marissa was there with a warm lunch for all of us. I was relieved to see she was fine and hadn’t been injured.

The bullet holes had been patched, paint had been applied, bloody and torn carpets had been replaced. The house had the sharp smell of new construction. I gawked at it. The last time I’d been there, it had looked like something out of a Vietnam War film.

Dad ate like a man possessed, but I couldn’t do more than pick at my food. My mind was on Blayne. How could I eat when he was fighting for his life?

The rest of the day, I tried to keep my mind off him by taking care of Dad. He went to bed early. I couldn’t sit around with my thoughts, so I took a sleeping pill and went to bed at eight. Settling into a real bed after sleeping in a chair for a week felt like the height of luxury, and I fell asleep almost instantly.

The pill, the exhaustion, and the bed did their job. I slept for over twelve hours, waking only when the insistent blare of my cell phone tugged me out of a deep sleep.

I pulled the phone off my night stand. It was Tate. All remnants of sleep vanished and I sat up in bed, heart racing. Was something wrong? I didn’t want to think about that. I answered before I could psych myself out.

“Hello?” I croaked.

“Ava?” Tate’s voice sounded heavy with emotion. “Ava…he’s awake.”

My mouth fell open. Relief washed over me like ice on a burn, a salve on an exposed nerve. Never had two words meant so much.

I couldn’t answer him. I wept sobs of happiness. Through the phone, I thought I could hear Tate crying, too.

THIRTY-ONE

BLAYNE

When my eyes fluttered open, I had a moment where I thought I was dead. There was a bright light above my head. Everything around me was white and deathly quiet. I could hear the ragged intake of my breath. It was only when I heard the nurse gasp that my vision cleared and I realized the light was only a fluorescent bulb above me. The white was the paint on the ceiling. Then I could hear the faint beeping of machines.

My body felt strangely heavy. It took more effort than it should have for me to raise my head. The nurse was leaning out the door, calling for the doctor.

When I rested my head back on the pillow, I was overcome with fatigue. Lifting my head alone had made me feel like I’d run two Ironman races back to back. My eyes closed again, and sleep took me.

I woke up again when the doctor opened my eyelids a few minutes later. He flashed a small penlight at my eyes, and it sent a spike of pain into my brain.

“Mr. Walker? Can you hear me?” the doctor asked, his voice very low and calm.

There wasn’t enough strength to nod, and when I tried to talk, no sound came out but a whispery rasp. He put ahand on my shoulder. “It’s okay. Take your time. You’ve been unconscious for a week. It’ll take some time for your vocal cords to work.” He turned and looked at the nurse. “Is his friend still out in the waiting room?”

“I don’t think he’s left all week,” she said.

“Okay. Go let him know Mr. Walker is awake. We’ll need to test his vitals before we can allow any other visitors.”

“Ava?” I hissed.

“I’m sorry?” The doctor leaned down to hear me better.

I swallowed and tried again. “Ava?”

He frowned and looked a bit confused. Finally, he patted my chest. “I’m sure your friend will contact everyone and let them know how you’re doing. First things first, let’s see how you’re doing.”

For the next hour, they checked my wounds, my blood pressure, respiratory rate, oximetry, and a dozen other things I couldn’t even comprehend. Apparently everything checked out. After they took out my feeding tube, they moved me to another room. It was much less austere and as homey as a hospital room could get. That little change was enough to raise my spirits. I was still exhausted, feeling like I’d been hit by a bus, but I was starting to feel better.

A few minutes after they moved me to my new room, Tate walked in. When he looked at me, it was obvious that he’d been crying. His eyes were red and bloodshot. He rushed forward, and I could tell he wanted to hug me. Thank God he didn’t. He probably would have broken me. He stopped at the edge of my bed and rested his hands on the rail.

“Hey, big guy,” he said. “I guess you really are too dumb to die.”

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