Page 17 of Wrong Number. Right Don.
Mia doesn’t say anything for a second and just lets me sit with the words. Then she straightens, stretching her arms over her head before giving me a pointed look. “You know what I think?”
I glance at her, not sure I actually want to know.
She smirks. “I think you need to let me help you.”
“Mia—” I start, the protest at the tip of my tongue.
“Nope,” she cuts me off, holding up a hand. “I know you. You’ll try to muscle through this alone like you did for the nursing boards. Lock yourself in a room for two weeks and hope for the best. But you’re not alone, and you don’t have to do this by yourself. You have me.”
I exhale slowly, feeling the weight of her words settle into my chest. She’s right, of course. I was planning to handle this alone. But I don’t have to. I’ve got people to support me.
“Good.” Mia grins when she sees that I’ve thought it over. “Now, let’s start with the basics.” She starts counting on her fingers. “One, you need sleep.”
“Easier said than done,” I groan.
“Two, you need food that doesn’t make you want to hurl,” she goes on, ignoring me. “More than saltines and applesauce.”
She’s pushy and stubborn, so I know my only option is to agree.
“I’ll take it under advisement,” I quip.
“And as your advisor, I know you will accept,” she says, sticking her tongue out at me.
We sit in comfortable silence, too exhausted to say more.
The emergency doors slam open. Two EMTs rush in, pushing a gurney with an elderly woman strapped down. They bark orders at the intake nurse. The woman is non-responsive and needs to be seen immediately.
And just like that, our break is over. I’m on my feet before I even realize I’ve moved, my exhaustion forgotten as instinct takes over. Mia is right beside me, both of us snapping into action as we fall into step with the gurney.
“What do we have?” I ask, my voice sharp, professional.
“Seventy-two-year-old female, found unresponsive in her home. Signs of a stroke. BP is 190 over 110. Pupils unequal. She was unconscious when we arrived, but started responding to pain stimuli on the way here,” one of the EMTs says as we wheel her into the nearest open bay.
Time is everything when it comes to strokes. We have to get her stabilized quickly or we risk losing her. I grab the nearest blood pressure cuff, securing it around the woman’s frail arm while Mia adjusts the oxygen mask over her face. The woman’s skin is ashen, her breathing shallow, and even though she’s blinking up at us, her gaze is glassy, unfocused.
“Ma’am, can you tell me your name?” I ask gently, pressing my fingers to her wrist to check her pulse. It’s weak.
Her lips part, but all that comes out is a slurred, unintelligible noise.
I exchange a look with Mia, who is already prepping an IV as the doctor walks into the room.
“Order a CT,” the attending physician tells Mia. She nods, handing me the IV and pulling out her tablet to code it in.
We haven’t gone far when a frantic voice rings out: “Where is she? Where the hell is my mother?”
Reflexively, I turn toward the man speaking, trusting the much larger EMTs will step in if he’s unhinged. But when I look up, I stop breathing. It’s Sergei. For a split second, I wonder if maybe I’m hallucinating again, as if all the stress and sleepless nights have caught up to me and it’s just another Sergei lookalike. Before I can stop myself, I’m calling out his name.
“Sergei?”
His head snaps up, ice-blue eyes locking on mine. His expression flickers between confusion, recognition, and perhaps a little embarrassment, but it’s quickly replaced by panic.
Mia glances between us, recognizing my sudden paralysis. She takes over, finishing the IV.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, stunned.
His gaze darts past me, toward the woman they’ve just wheeled away.
“Where are they taking her?” His voice trembles, equal parts anger and fear. “Where are they taking my mother?”
