Page 6 of Discover Me
"Micah, you with us?" A doctor appears on my other side, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and graying hair pulled back in a bun. A stethoscope sits around her neck as she holds a tablet in her hands. "I'm Dr. Reeves. You're at St. Mary's Hospital. You had a pretty nasty fall this morning, but by some miracle, you weren't hurt worse."
I nod slowly, trying to process her words.
"A few people stopped by to make sure you're okay," Dr. Reeves continues, checking something on her tablet. "But I didn't want to overwhelm you right when you woke up. You needed rest more than visitors."
I look over at Jamie, raising an eyebrow in question. He just shrugs.
"He insisted," Dr. Reeves says, a hint of amusement in her voice. "And we know he's not too much of a troublemaker. The others left flowers and get-well cards." She gestures toward the far wall, where there's a small table absolutely covered in colorful arrangements and cards. "You're quite popular, it seems."
My gaze lands on the flowers. There are at least a dozen arrangements, ranging from simple bouquets to elaborate displays. Some are in vases, others in baskets. Cards are proppedup among them, and even from here I can see familiar names scrawled on the envelopes. My coworkers from Henderson Construction. My neighbors. People from Riley's Bar, where I grab drinks on Friday nights.
"Let's get you some water and then check your vitals, okay?" Dr. Reeves moves to a small table and pours water from a pitcher into a plastic cup with a straw. "Small sips. Your throat's probably pretty sore."
She holds the straw to my lips and I drink gratefully. The water is lukewarm but it might as well be ambrosia the way it soothes my parched throat. I take a few sips before she pulls it away.
"Not too much at once. We don't want you getting sick." She sets the cup down and pulls out a blood pressure cuff. "Just going to check a few things. This might be a bit uncomfortable."
I go through the motions as she takes my blood pressure, temperature, and pulse. Everything hurts when I move, even just extending my arm for the cuff. My chest feels tight, breathing is difficult, and there's a persistent burning sensation across my torso that makes me want to curl up and protect the injury but I can’t lift my head up far enough to take in the extent of any damage.
"Damn, I didn't think you were going to wake up," Jamie says from his seat. He's pulled his chair as close to the bed as possible, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. "I went to come help you because I finished up my project early, and then everyone was freaking out saying an ambulance had come. They mentioned they took you to the hospital and I just..." He runs a hand through his hair. "I drove over as fast as I could."
I try to respond and thank him for being here, but what comes out is garbled nonsense. My mouth isn't cooperating with my brain, words getting tangled on my tongue.
Dr. Reeves gently taps the edge of my bed, the Alpha holding a small flashlight in her hand. "Ready for more tests? Just need to make sure everything's functioning properly."
She shines the light in my eyes, having me follow her finger as she moves it back and forth. Then she asks me questions. Can I see certain things in the room? What's my full name? What day is it? Do I know where I am? What are my parents’ names?
I answer as best I can, though my voice comes out rough and scratchy. Thursday. St. Mary's Hospital. Hal and Dena.
"Good," Dr. Reeves says, seeming satisfied. "You're doing well, all things considered. You've got some cognitive function to work on, but that's normal after a head injury and being unconscious for several hours. You're going to be in recovery for a bit, but you'll heal. You've got two bruised ribs, which is why breathing probably hurts so much. There is some head trauma but not a concussion as far as we’re aware. A hairline fracture to your right arm," She gestures to my arm, and I notice for the first time that it's in a splint. "And the gash from your neck to your stomach damaged your scent gland. Something mentioned that shrapnel or some kind of sharp metal might have caught you on the way down."
I blink at her, trying to process that last part. My scent gland? I reach up instinctively toward my neck, but she catches my hand gently.
"Don't touch it yet. It's bandaged and needs to stay clean." She releases my hand. "The gash was deep. It tore through tissue and damaged the gland itself. We've done what we can to repair it, but there may be lasting effects."
"What does that mean?" I manage to croak out. My voice sounds foreign to my own ears.
"It means your scent is going to fluctuate a bit," Dr. Reeves explains. She pulls up a chair and sits, clearly settling in for a longer conversation. "It's going to be more difficult for people tosmell you. Your scent might be inconsistent, sometimes strong, and sometimes barely there. It might mess with some of your biological instincts as well. Betas rely on scent for a lot of things, even if it's not as pronounced as it is for Alphas and Omegas. Social bonding, recognition, territorial behaviors. All of that could be affected."
Some Alphas who couldn’t take no for an answer ruined the thing that makes me identifiable as me, the subtle marker that tells people I'm a Beta, that helps me navigate social situations. It’s just gone? Damaged beyond repair?
"We won't really know the full extent until you start healing," she continues. "Scent glands are tricky. Sometimes they recover fully, sometimes partially, sometimes not at all. We'll monitor it closely, and there are therapies we can try if needed. But I want you to be prepared for the possibility that this might be permanent."
I might never smell like myself again. People might not recognize me by scent. I might lose that fundamental part of what makes me Beta, what makes meme. She lets me sit with that for a few moments, the apologetic expression on her face not making me feel any better.
"Are you ready to talk to some people?" Dr. Reeves asks, her tone gentler now. "There are two officers who'd like to ask you some questions about what happened. I can tell them to come back if you're not up for it."
I nod, then immediately groan as the movement sends fresh pain shooting through my head. Dr. Reeves must see the pain on my face because she immediately checks the IV by my bed. "Let me get them. We'll keep this brief and then I’ll get you some more of the good stuff." She throws me a wink before heading to the door and gesturing to someone outside.
Two officers step in, both in uniform. I recognize one of them immediately. Deputy Morrison, the same older officer whoprobably responded to the scene. The other is younger, maybe early thirties, with a military haircut and an intense gaze that has me tensing in his presence.
"Micah," Morrison says, nodding at me. "Good to see you awake. This is Detective Pinkney, from a few cities over. We just need to ask you a few questions about what happened this afternoon. Take your time, and if you need us to stop, just say so."
I nod again, more carefully this time.
"Can you tell us what you remember?" Pinkney asks, pulling out a small notebook.
I take a breath, wincing at the pain in my ribs. "I was on the roof, finishing up some repair work on the entertainment building downtown. Was packing up my tools when I saw Derek and Colt at the bottom of my ladder."
