Page 74 of Midnight Hunter
Toren
The waiting room chair was too small for me. They always were.
I shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t make my back ache from barely having my upper thighs on the seat, and finally gave up. Across from me, an old man dozed with a magazine open on his chest. A woman two seats down kept glancing at my hand, then at my face, then back at my hand, like she was trying to work out what I’d done to deserve the splint.
Fell off a mountain being a dumbass, lady. But thanks for asking.
Heaving a sigh, I pursed my lips and glanced away, staring out the window at the parking lot.
Walker had dropped me off at the medical center at six that morning, grumbling about the hour the whole drive down the mountain. He’d offered to wait. I told him not to be stupid—the MRI would take at least half an hour, then the surgery was another couple hours, recovery another one or two. There was no sense in him sitting in a waiting room all day when he had charters he could be flying.
He’d given me a hard look, blinked a couple times, then agreed before waving at me as I walked inside the building and he drove off.
“Toren McCrae?”
I glanced at the door as a nurse called my name. She smiled.
Pushing to my feet, I grabbed my crutches and followed her through the doorway.
The next several hours passed in the disjointed way they do under anesthesia. After changing into a gown and going through the million pre-surgery questions, they eventually wheeled me into the MRI room, where I laid on the too short table with headphones on while the machine buzzed and whirred around me. After that, I spent a little more time in the prep room before they took me down to the O.R. There, they put me under and the orthopedic surgeon I met at the E.R. Saturday drilled pins into the bones of my ring finger and pinky.
When I surfaced in recovery, two silver pins stuck out the end of a black plaster cast encasing my two broken fingers and the rest of my hand up to my second knuckles. It went over my wrist and halfway up my forearm. Cotton-headed and floaty, I stared at it, wondering why it didn’t hurt worse.
“How’re you doing, Mr. McCrae?” A different nurse from the one earlier sidled up to my bed with a smile. “Any pain?”
I shook my head and immediately wished I hadn’t. The room spun like I was on a tilt-a-whirl. “No.” I closed my eyes as a bit of nausea took hold.
“That’s good. The surgeon put a nerve block in to get you past the worst of it. We’ll load you up on the good drugs, though, before you leave.”
I waved my good hand. “I’ll be fine. Just give me some ibuprofen.”
She pinned me with a look. “You had metal pins drilled into your bones. Are you sure about that?”
I gave her a cockeyed smile. “How about you send me home with the stuff and I’ll decide later?”
She huffed a quick breath through her nose. “I suppose we can do that. Just don’t wait too long to take it. It’s a lot harder to get on top of pain that’s already there than it is to prevent it.”
“Noted. Can I have some water?” My mouth was sticky.
“Sure. Let me take your vitals, then I’ll get you a drink.” She tapped the button on the monitor overhead, and the cuff around my bicep inflated.
I closed my eyes and let her do her thing. Eventually, she left, then returned a little while later with some water and some applesauce. I consumed both, pleasantly surprised when they soothed my upset stomach. I still felt cotton-headed, but at least now I didn’t feel sick.
“Okay, Mr. McCrae. I think it’s about time we spring you from this joint.” The nurse walked in again with a rattle of curtain clips. “Do you need help changing into your clothes? I can have your lady friend come in and help, if you want?”
I frowned. “Lady friend?”
She nodded. “She just arrived. I have her sitting in the waiting room, because I wasn’t sure if you wanted her to help you dress.”
“Is she blonde? About average height?”
“Yes.” The nurse frowned. “Is there a problem?”
“No. No problem.” Except Walker was going to die. “You can tell her to bring her car around. I can get dressed on my own.”
“Okay. No bending over from standing, though. You’re probably still dizzy from anesthesia, and we can’t have you crashing to the floor.”
“Not a problem. I definitely don’t want to add concussion to my list of injuries.”
