Page 37 of No Hope of Rescue

I nod.

΅

We’ve all gathered in the waiting room. Jace brought Kelly over, and Carter and Ryan followed a few moments later. I’m just glad they all arrived at once so Brock didn’t have to relay the rescue story twice. Kelly brought an overnight bag, no doubt with a change of clothes and shoes for her daughter.

The doors open again, and we all look up, expecting a nurse with some news, but it’s Ross.

“Just me,” he says, and Kelly rises to give him a hug. He settles into a chair across from the family who’ve made up their own compound in the corner. Thank God no one else is in the waiting room. I stand, my back against the wall.

They’re all tense. I’ve watched these brothers work together, party together, and sweat together. They always have one another’s backs, though I don’t think it’s always been this way. But when it comes to Codie, they are an overprotective bunch. That girl has grit and spirit, and though they allow her to spread her wings, they fall over each other stringing up safety nets for her.

Brock does not tell them about her apologizing or her repeated questions about what she’s supposed to do now—and I know he’s protecting his family from worry. We have no facts yet. They all must be worried, though.

The door opens a fourth time, and Dr. Harrison meets all our stricken faces. Everyone rises or half rises, and he crosses the room, his hands first clasped together, then waving everyone to sit. He pulls up a chair and sits on it backward. This guy is an anchor in rough seas. Every time I’ve seen him in action, he’s calm, collected, and right to the point, but with a box of tissues at the ready.

“First, let me reassure you that Codie is doing very well. After what she’s been through, she’s in remarkably good shape. No broken bones, no concussion. Just some chaffing on her wrists and ankles.”

He doesn’t need to tell us from what.

“That said, I am sending her MRI to Johns Hopkins just to be sure her brain was not compromised. Cold can trigger seizures, as you know.” He gazes at Kelly. “And seizing while hypothermic can cause some issues.” He pauses. “The neurologist here is very good, but I just want to be sure so we can clear her.”

Ryan and Jace lean back in their chairs, each with an audible sigh. Carter still looks grim, and he shares a glance with his older brother.

Brock takes up the question. “Is there any evidence of—”

Kelly’s voice finishes the question, soft but clear. “Was she sexually assaulted?”

Dr. Harrison looks surprised. “No. She did not self-report, and there’s no physical evidence. She was assessed immediately for sexual assault after she was brought in. You should have been informed—immediately. I’m sorry.”

Brock sits quietly with the news for a moment, his shoulders visibly releasing.

He swallows and tents his hands together, resting fingertips against his forehead. I rub his shoulder again, wanting nothing more than to hold him, but I can’t. I shouldn’t. I could before that stolen kiss, but not now. I’ve screwed things up for myself. For him. For us.

Dr. Hamilton continues talking about Codie’s follow-up care. She can be released tomorrow morning once another blood panel puts her in the clear and she’s off her IV drip. There will be another checkup a week after that. By then, the MRI will have been read.

“But,” he says, stressing his words, “I anticipate no issues. Physical ones at least. Sorting out what happened to her in the last three days will be hard, though. For her and for all of you.”

Handing Kelly a sheet of paper with a short list of therapists, he goes on to explain the best course of action: simply assume Codie will want therapy and don’t make it optional.

“In times like these, teenagers will take the easy way out. Don’t let her—it will catch up with her later,” he says and stands.

Brock hasn’t moved. Now, he raises his head and drops his hands, glancing up at me.

I nod and tilt my head toward the doctor. Now’s the time. Dr. Hamilton is nearly out the door.

Leveraging himself from the chair, he rises slowly, leans over stiffly, and lifts his jacket from the back of the chair.

“Hey, Hamilton.”

The doctor turns around.

“Before you go, I need to see you about something else” is all Brock says and follows the doctor’s wave into the hallway.

΅

Brock is still not back. It’s taking way too long, and I’m too nervous to stay in the waiting room. I know he’s okay though, because he texted Carter to see if he could take Savi for the next few days. But that was about an hour ago. I rise and pace.

In school, my ninth-grade teacher, Ms. Priscilla Dunbar, called me “Ms. Fidgety,” which was ironic because she looked like a high-strung poodle and careened from one subject to another with a kind of nervous energy that was head spinning.