Page 64 of Every Thought Taken

I stay quiet for a beat as I prepare for my mother’s wrath.

“Sam, get the nurse.” Fingers touch my hair. “I think he’s coming to.”

The nurse? I’m in the hospital?

One blip at a time, memories flood in. The sleeping pills I stole from the store. Stripping down and taking the entire bottle. The sweating, the cramps, the chills as my body tried to force the toxin out of my system. And then nothing.

How long ago was that? How long did it take for Mom or Dad to break into my room and find their baby boy near death? Too soon, obviously.

“Anderson, can you hear me?”

I want to ignore her. Pretend she doesn’t exist. But then footsteps slap the floor. Dad speaks with someone other than Mom and I know I won’t be able to shut them out much longer.

“Anderson,” a new, deeper voice calls out. “My name is Jerome.” Warm fingers wrap around my hand. “If you hear my voice, squeeze my hand.”

Against every instinct, the muscles in my hand contract.

“Good. That’s good, Anderson.” He releases my hand. More footsteps echo in the room, a scratching sound mingling with the heart monitor beeps. A moment later, his hand takes mine again. “I’ve darkened the room. When you’re ready, open your eyes.”

Slowly, I peel my eyes open, blinking against the dryness a few times. I survey the room, Mom and Dad on my left, a man in dark scrubs on my right.

“You gave us quite the scare, Anderson.” He gives my hand a squeeze then releases it as he checks an IV bag hanging near the bed. He picks up a cup with a straw and brings it to my lips. “Small sips. I’m sure your throat feels raw.”

I do as he says and take a few small sips before releasing the straw.

Is my throat sore from vomiting? Is that why my stomach continues to twist every other minute?

“You have questions,” Jerome says, as if hearing my thoughts. “I’ll page the doctor and we’ll answer everything. Until then, rest. You’ve been through a lot.” He sets the cup on a tray table next to the bed. “Be back in a moment.” Then he disappears from the room.

I lift my hand, wanting another sip of water, but my arm doesn’t move. Glancing down the bed, my eyes land on a thick leather band circling my wrist. My eyes shift to the opposite wrist to see another cuff pinning me to the bed. I yank against the leather over and over. Thrash in place and discover my ankles and waist are also restrained.

“What the fuck,” I scream as I jerk harder.

“Anderson,” Dad says, sadness thick in his voice. “They have to, son.” I meet his red-rimmed eyes as I grit my teeth. “In your… condition”—he swallows, a tear rolling down his cheek—“they have to restrain you.”

“This is bullshit,” I mutter as the man from a moment ago walks in with a woman in a white coat.

“Hello, Anderson,” the woman says, a tablet in her hand. “I’m Dr. Wexford. Do you know why you’re here?”

With a shake of my head, I roll my eyes. “I’m not a fucking idiot.”

“Anderson,” Mom admonishes.

Dr. Wexford holds up a hand to silence her. “It’s fine, Mrs. Everett.” She sets the tablet down on the rolling table. “Anderson, I know it’s a stupid question, but I have to ask.”

I study the small dots in the ceiling tiles, clench my jaw and rock it side to side. “Yeah, doc, I know why I’m here.” I shift my head on the pillow and meet her soft, warm gaze. Inhaling deeply, I swallow. “Because I want to die. Something else I obviously can’t do right.”

Out of nowhere, tears spill down my cheeks. My arm jerks as I try to bring a hand to my face to wipe them away.Dammit.

“It’s been a long twenty-nine hours, Anderson.” She rests a hand on my shoulder. “But I promise it will get better from here.”

I don’t see how that is possible, not when nothing has changed. Not whensheis gone.

A bolt of fear strikes at the thought of Helena. Does she know I’m here? Does Ales?

I face my parents. “Does anyone know I’m here?”

Mom stares at me, brows tugging together. “What?”

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