Page 48 of Nicole's Shelter

“Nothing serious.”

He sounded like he meant it, but she knew he would downplay any injury. Sitting up, it was a struggle to get her bearings. She was grateful for the help as Rick and the doctor guided her from the exam table to a chair. The chair gave her body some context for her surroundings, but she let go of Rick’s hand reluctantly.

“Hold this for me, please?” She heard the sound of a zipper—his jacket—and accepted the warm, worn leather, her fingers exploring it for any clue to his injury. “Were you shot?”

“The jacket took the worst of it.”

And he’d ignored his own problem to take care of her because she’d been picky and wanted a better view during the confrontation. Like that turned out so well. “Doc, what’s wrong? How bad is it really?”

“Just a flesh wound, I believe. Off with your shirt.”

Another image flashed through her mind, this one of Rick’s muscled chest dusted with hair still damp from his shower. The memory was almost as good as the real thing. Who was she kidding? She wanted her eyesight back. She wanted to see for herself how bad this ‘flesh wound’ really was. “Does he need stitches?”

“Nah.”

“That’s my decision, young man,” the doctor corrected.

“Call me Rick.” He hissed a low breath. “A little warning next time.”

“Just the antiseptic. Doesn’t bother most people.”

Rick gave a disbelieving grunt.

“Can you tell me how Ms. Livingston was injured? She doesn’t seem to remember it at all.”

“And you need to know what not to talk about.”

“Something like that.”

“There was some trouble on the road. Let’s call it an excessive act of road rage.”

“Involving live ammunition?”

“Yes.” She heard Rick sigh. “Ms. Livingston was on the floor of our car, tucked under the dash. I was preoccupied so I can’t be sure when she left the vehicle, but I’m glad she did as it exploded toward the end of the conflict.”

Rick sounded so clinical, as if he’d read a news brief rather than survived a gun fight against three assailants.

“And the flesh wound here?”

“Turned my back at the wrong moment.”

My fault. Rick wouldn’t be in this situation, wouldn’t be injured, if not for her troubles. An apology on her lips, the doctor interrupted her.

“That’s good news. A little pressure, Mr. Dreyer.”

“He needs stitches too?” The guilt had her chewing a thumbnail, something she hadn’t done in ages.

“Not yet. Just cleaning things out.”

Why did that sound worse? She slumped back in the chair, feeling adrift and detached from Rick, the doctor, the whole world. Of course she’d taken her eyesight for granted. The simple acts of walking over to hold Rick’s hand and see his injury for herself were impossible. How strange to understand why she felt so vulnerable and have no viable solution but ‘time’.

“Is there a store nearby where I can pick up supplies and clean clothes before we head out?”

“I have scrubs here you can borrow.”

“All due respect, Doc—”

“Neither of you is going anywhere tonight. Ms. Livingston needs to be under observation for the concussion as well as the blindness.”

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