Page 25 of Grace of a Wolf 2
I stare blankly at the ceiling as he wheels me toward the door, going backward. My hands rest limply on the blanket, still too heavy with sleep to move properly. The bed bumps when crossing the threshold.
A soft ping from the nightstand reaches my ears just as we round the corner. My hands twitch.
Oh, no. My phone. It's still on the nightstand.
The realization filters slowly through my drowsiness. Should I ask to go back for it? It seems trivial to delay whatever test they need to run. Besides, imaging never takes long, does it? Twenty minutes, thirty at most? I'll be back in my room before Lyre returns from her errands.
The nurse steers my bed into an elevator, an awkward affair involving an eight-point turn. It doesn't seem to bother him, though, like he does this every day. I guess he does.
The doors slide closed, sealing us in the metal box, and I gain a sudden case of claustrophobia. New-onset.
"What kind of imaging am I getting?" I ask, trying to chase away the cloudiness in my head.
His eyes remain fixed on the illuminated panel of floor numbers. "Standard procedure."
The vague answer should bother me, but I'm still too groggy to push further. The elevator descends, my stomach lifting slightly with the motion, and I hope I don't throw up on my blanket.
When the doors open, the air feels different—cooler, for one. The lighting is harsher here, with no attempt made at the softer, more comforting glow of the patient floors.
I crane my neck around. Utilitarian hallways stretch in both directions.
"Is this radiology?" I ask, because it doesn't look like any hospital department I've seen before. No signs on the walls, no other patients or staff visible.
"Just through here." He makes a sharp turn, wheeling me toward a set of double doors.
A flicker of unease ripples through my chest. The fog in my brain is lifting, replaced by uncomfortable prickles of alertness. Something about this doesn't feel right.
We pass through the double doors into yet another corridor, lined with doors. The temperature drops another few degrees. Goosebumps rise on my arms. I look like a naked chicken.
"Wait," I say, my voice stronger now. "What department is this?"
His pace doesn't slow. "Almost there."
Sickly green walls have given way to gray concrete. The shade of green didn't seem particularly conducive to a healing atmosphere, but bare concrete is worse. It's…
Are we in a parking garage?
It… kind of looks like one. Only with no cars. Or parking spaces. And I can't see the sky.
Where the hell is this? The basement? It's obviously not the department of x-rays and MRIs.
"Stop! I'm going back to my room." I push myself up on my elbows, fighting against the weakness still clinging to my limbs, and it's a new level of stupid to think he's going to respond well to my demands.
But—I mean, I can't justlethim take me.
Even verbal resistance is something, especially when my body's notlistening.
His hand comes down on my shoulder, pressing me back against the mattress. Not forcefully, but with unmistakable purpose. He's not even trying to explain the situation away.
"Lie still. This won't take long."
Fear has cleared the last of the grogginess, but the adrenaline running through my veins is no match for the lethargy of my body.
I twist my head, searching for someone. Anyone. But it's eerily quiet as the squeaking of my bed and the soft thud of his feet echo in this emptiness.
My phone's still on my nightstand upstairs. No way to call Lyre. No way to call anyone. Damn it.
"Who are you? You're not a nurse." I speak the words with as much strength as I can muster, but they still come out thin and shaky. If I could just have the strength to roll off this bed and run…
