Page 8 of Just My Puck
I nod, trying to keep my composure. But when you find yourself in a hospital with zero memories, it’s hard to stay calm.
After a while, Dr. Silva returns holding a stack of medical images. “I got your results back, and you do have a mild concussion. Nothing major. However, there is a lesion on your hippocampus and medial temporal lobe. I believe that’s the cause of your memory loss.”
I swallow hard. “Okay. Can you remove it? The lesion?”
“It’s not as easy as that, I’m afraid,” she says with a sympathetic smile. “There is no known treatment or surgery for amnesia.”
Someone knocks on the door, and two police officers enter the room.
My saliva catches in my throat, and I cough. “What’s going on?”
“It’s okay,” Dr. Silva says. “These gentlemen are going to take your fingerprints and ask you some questions. Hopefully, we’ll be able to identify you. Before they take over, I’m going to give you five words, and I want you to remember them, okay?”
I nod.
“Plane, bird, red, book, car.”
I repeat the words, and she smiles.
“Great. Remember them, okay? I’ll ask you again later.” She turns to the officers in the doorway. “Gentlemen, she’s all yours.”
And as the cops start questioning me, I continue to repeat those five words in my head.
I’ve been alone in this room for a while now, and I’m starting to wonder what they’re planning to do with me. What if my fingerprints are the exact match of some deranged serial killer? Will they throw me in jail? What if Iama serial killer? The thought triggers an amused smile. I may not know who I am, but I know I’m not a murderer. At least, I’m pretty sure.
The handle on the door finally jiggles, and I sit up, hopeful for some good news. I try to ignore the nagging voice in my head telling me things are only going to get worse from here on out. I wonder if she’s always been there, or if she made her way in thanks to that lesion on my hippopotamus or whatever it’s called. Oh, maybe I’m a zookeeper?
But when the door swings open, it’s not the cops or Dr. Silva who enters the room. In walks a tall, strong-looking guy with dark hair, brown eyes, and a beard. Our eyes lock—well, my only eye and both of his—and I’m caught off guard. This guy’s hotness meter is through the roof, with broad shoulders, a jawline that could cut glass, and the kind of rugged handsomeness that belongs on a magazine cover.
I might only have one working eye right now, but it doesn’t take two eyes to know this is a fine man.
“Hi,” he says, shuffling toward me. He offers me a small smile, and something tugs at my heart. Who is this guy? Wait, are he and I together? Whoeverhis girlfriend is, I’ll take that name.
“I’m so, so sorry,” he says, his eyes overflowing with concern. “How are you feeling? What’s wrong with your eye? I tried to talk to a doctor, but it’s mayhem out there.” He nods toward the door. “People are throwing up in the hall, kids screaming.”
“Yeah, it’s been a while since I’ve seen anyone. I can hear them running around.”
Before he can respond, a commotion erupts outside my room—shouting, the squeak of shoes against tile, and then, the unmistakable sound of someone barreling through the door.
A man stumbles in, disheveled and wild-eyed. He’s wearing a ratty coat two sizes too big. He reeks of alcohol and something sour, and his eyes are bloodshot. “They took my shoes,” he mumbles, his gaze darting around the room like he’s seeing things that aren’t there. “I need my shoes back.”
My pulse kicks into high gear.
The handsome bearded man reacts instantly, stepping between us like a human shield. “Hey, man. Wrong room,” he says, his voice firm but calm.
The intruder doesn’t seem to hear him. His gaze lands on my hospital bed, and his brow furrows. “Give me back my shoes,” he grits out, louder now.
“They’re not here,” Hottie says, but the intruder clearly doesn’t believe him. He lurches toward the foot of the bed and, to my horror, starts lifting the blanket to check for his shoes.
“Okay, that’s enough.” Hottie’s voice is no longer calm—it’s commanding. He grips the intruder’s arm, straddling the fine line between firm and aggressive, and starts steering him toward the door.
The man struggles half-heartedly. “But my shoes—”
“They’re not here. Time to go.”
A flicker of something dangerous flashes in the intruder’s eyes, but Hottie doesn’t back down. With a final push, he shepherds him out the door and into the madness of the hallway.
Swiveling on his heel, Hottie turns back to me, his expression softening. “You okay?”
