Page 126 of Pack Me Up
When Brittney wakes up, the first thing she’ll see is her whole world waiting for her.
That’s the way it should be.
Always.
Fox
PHOENIX PACK SECURITY BRIEF #142
LIST OF CANCELED SHOWS
May 30th
Hospitals always feel the same. They smell like bleach, floor wax, and the faint, sickly tang of blood. But even that dense cocktail can’t mask the smell of Brittney, barely a whisper under all the antiseptic. I don’t know how long I’ve been in this chair. There’s a clock on the wall, but I can’t focus on it.
Saint stands by the door, back against the glass, his arms crossed so hard I wonder if the muscles will fuse that way. His lip’s split, crusted dark, and he’s been chewing it raw since we arrived. He hasn’t left the threshold except for bathroom runs.
Cody’s in the corner, bandaged and stiff. He’s got the TV remote but hasn’t turned it on, just spins it in his hand. Colton’s doing that thing where he leans on the windowsill, one knee jacked up, pretending he’s not limping. The twins don’t talk, but they keep glancing at each other, blinking messages back and forth in a language nobody else is meant to read.
Hunter is the only one who moves. He paces a trench in the linoleum, forward and back, ribs wrapped under his T-shirt and every breath a little hitch. Every time he hits the wall, he stops, stares at Brittney for three full seconds, and then turns.
Brittney sleeps. Her face is mostly untouched except for the bruise blooming above her eyebrow, and her mouth is a straight line even when she dreams. There’s a monitor strapped to her finger, and the soft, green glow of the pulse-ox is the only light I trust in this place. Her hair’s been pulled back in a braid by Oli. Her bandaged head propped on a pillow, the color of bone.
They tell me she’s stable. They tell me it’s just a matter of time, of “letting her rest and recover.” But the more hours that pass, the more the doctor’s words turn to slush in my ears.
I’ve been reading headlines on my phone all night about Brittney. The cancelled tour dates and leaks from the hospital make for headlines that piss me off.
Oli, her mates, Riley, and Tommy commandeered a hospital conference room on a different floor to meet with the label and handle things. The guys and I refused to leave her side, but I know they have Brittney’s best interest at heart.
The door clicks, and a doctor slides in, gray coat, navy scrubs, hair pulled so tight it’s shiny. She does the little half-smile, the one they teach in med school for breaking bad news. “Good evening, everyone,” she says, voice so calm it almost works. “I’m going to check her response again, if that’s alright.”
Saint pushes off the door and stands near the end of the bed, hands knotted behind his back. I hate how the doc’s eyes flick to him first, like he’s the one in charge and the rest of us are just background static.
She shines a light in Brittney’s eyes, calls her name soft and careful. Britt doesn’t move. I watch for the flicker under her eyelids, anything to break the stillness, but there’s nothing. The doc scribbles on her chart, checks the monitors, adjusts the IV, then faces us all like she’s bracing for a firing squad.
“Her scans are stable,” she says. “No more swelling, no new bleeds. The fracture is minor, and we’re optimistic she’ll wakesoon. It may take another day or two, but I have every reason to believe she’ll make a full neurological recovery.”
Saint just nods, jaw clenched.
Colton and Cody both exhale the same breath.
The doctor softens. “If you have questions, I’ll be just down the hall.” She leaves, the door swinging shut on the sound of her shoes.
Nobody says anything. The silence in the room grows roots, splitting the difference between comfort and dread. I look at the twins, then at Saint, and wonder if I’m the only one scared shitless she’ll never wake up.
I shuffle my chair closer to the bed and take Brittney’s hand. It’s limp, the pulse at her wrist steady but slow. I squeeze, hoping for a twitch. Nothing.
I watch a muscle jump in Saint’s cheek, like he’s fighting the urge to break something.
I just keep holding her hand, watching the rise and fall of her chest, the little blip on the monitor that’s the only proof she’s still in there.
Hunter paces back and forth, whispering, “Come on, Britt, come on, Britt, don’t do this,” over and over until Saint tells him to knock it off.
The twins stay quiet. For a while, all you can hear is the beep of the monitors, the scrape of Hunter’s sneakers, and the soft click of Colton’s teeth as he grinds them together.
“Brittney, my songbird, you need to wake up now,” I tell her. “Your mates need you. I need you. None of us will survive without you, so open your gorgeous eyes and tell us everything will be okay.”
The other four come closer, each of them touching a part of her.
