Page 4 of The Two Last Moments

“Don’t try to move. You need to go to the hospital. I’ll help you, okay?”

A door opens behind me, and there are shouts. Footsteps. The neighbor must have heard the noise. I hold up a hand to keep him back. While I’m checking her airways and vitals, running through the protocols, I hear the neighbor on his phone. Calling 911. Good.

But the woman’s eyes are rolling back. She’s losing consciousness.

“Police and paramedics on their way,” the neighbor says. “Who is she?”

I’m still looking for signs of trauma and Cushing’s Triad so I’ll be ready when the ambulance gets here, but I don’t even have my jump bag. I’m working blind. “I don’t know,” I reply. All I know is that someone tried to kill her. And I can’t get her pleading voice out of my head.

Please.

2

Harsh florescent lights shine in my eyes. Strange faces surround me, and hands grab at me.

No. No, stop.

I thrash my arms and legs. I have to get away. I have to run.

“Shit, Bradley, get back in here,” someone shouts. “She’s flipping out again!” There are footsteps. More voices.

Then, I see him. Blue eyes. Eyes that I know.

Safe, they tell me.You’re safe.

I open my mouth, trying to speak. “I… I’m…”

“You’re okay,” he says, leaning over me. “If you don’t stop fighting, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

There’s a prick in my arm. Darkness descends over me again.

* * *

My eyes blink open.I hear moaning.

It takes a moment to realize that the moaning is coming from me.

I close my mouth and try to concentrate. I’m breathing. In and out. I’m in a bed. Something’s beeping nearby. A machine. When I look down at myself, dark hair sweeps past my shoulder.

My head feels heavy. Fuzzy.

“Hi,” says a deep voice. “How’re you feeling?”

There’s a man sitting beside me. His long-sleeved T-shirt is snug against a muscular frame.

I try to move, but I can’t. Anxiety seizes me, makes my throat close up.

“Whoa, don’t start that again.” He touches my arm. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

Somehow, when I look at the man next to me, the terror recedes. Dark blond hair falls across his forehead, the kind of blond that looks brown when he leans his head at an angle. His eyes are blue. The placid blue of a lake on a calm morning.

I know those eyes.

I feel like I should know his name, but I can’t remember it.

“Why…can’t I move?”

A woman in chunky red glasses and medical scrubs walks into the room as I ask the question. “Ah, you’re up. Welcome back. You were getting feisty earlier, so we had to sedate and restrain you.” She’s holding a tablet computer. “This guy’s the only one who could calm you down.”

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