Page 55 of After We Fall

How about he hunts down the person who decided to wake concussion patients in timely increments to check neurological responses? After that, let’s hunt down the person who declared concussion patients can’t utilize electronics while they’re intentionally deprived of sleep. Finally, let’s hunt down the person who decided that concussion patients can only take Tylenol while they’re fully awake and in pain during said torture.

My shoulder, temple, and the back of my head all throb to the beat of my heart. My anger and frustration only cause the tempo to increase. I close my eyes and inhale through my nose, trying to lower my blood pressure.

Shortly after Luke left, my life became a bustle of activity.

A grandmotherly nurse made the rounds to stitch up the two cuts on my head. Her wrinkled but steady hands administered the local anesthetic. When the throbbing subsided to a more manageable range, I became her biggest fan.

I was not, however, a fan of the cocky young nurse who came armed with a cache of skeleton jokes, which he took great joy in telling me while he popped my shoulder back into place.

Once my admissions paperwork went through, orderlies rolled me to my room. A stereotypical drab room in the corner of the redbrick building. The double windows probably offered a striking view of the Rockies, but I was grateful for the double-enforced curtains that blocked out the streaking sunlight.

Streaking sunlight that, thankfully, surrendered to the more forgiving whisper of the moon’s glow. I’ve eaten next to nothing. The meltdown I experienced earlier today has morphed into a ball of frustration so profound, I can hardly manage anything. The constant pain from the injury cracked open a path for crankiness to seep into my bones and infiltrate every fiber in me. My lack of control over the situation is grating on my last nerve. Worry shreds my last pieces of sanity.

In full migraine mode, I lie on my uninjured side, turned away from the door. My body curls into itself as I grasp the chafing sheet, hoping its cheap cotton can absorb some of the misery.

A line of light travels slowly across the darkened wall, indicating the door behind me is opening.

“Is it time to check vitals again?” I ask. That would mean the last half hour flew by, a minor gift in the scope of today.

Silence.

Quiet footsteps patter around my bed. A sob. “Miss Penelope?”

My eyes pop open. “Finley?”

“Oh my gosh, Miss Penelope. Are you okay?” She crouches down, her tear-streaked face filling my vision. “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

I swallow. “It’s all right, Finley. I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay, Miss Penelope.” She takes in my face, the bandages, the IV pole, and the screen with my vitals. “I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.”

I open my palm, and she places her hand in mine. “I’m okay, Finley.”

“No. You’re not. You’re in the hospital. That was so much blood, Penny Lady. I was so scared.” She pauses, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Marcus didn’t mean to do it. You know that, right?”

I can piece together that he was there, he was upset, and he pushed me. However shoddy my memories are, his intention seems clear to me.

“You know that, right, Penelope? He—I mean, yes, he pushed you. But he didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“Did you talk to him? After the incident at the store?”

She shakes her head.

Searching her face, I try to decipher if her response is trustworthy. The events of today cloud my brain, and I have no idea what kind of storm I’m dealing with.

“The cops are after him.” Her voice cracks. “But I’ll make this right. I’ll find him, bring him in. Make him tell the police that this was all an accident. Then it will all be okay. I’ll fix it, and everything can go back to normal.” Her eyes move wildly as she discusses each part of her plan.

“Look at me.” I wait for her to comply. “This is not your responsibility to fix. You did nothing wrong.”

“It’s my fault,” she whispers. “All of it. But don’t worry, Miss Penelope. I’m going to fix it.”

I lift my head but drop it the second pain shoots through my eyebrow. Dang it. I’m bound to this bed, and she’s probably about to do something stupid. Something that could backfire in astronomical proportions. “Finley—”

“I’m going to fix it. I’m going to get Marcus to turn himself in. Then the cops will understand it was an accident. It will be okay.”

Panic hits me, and I tighten my grip on her. “Finley, don’t go anywhere near him. Go straight to Twelve Bluebells.”

A heart-wrenching combination of regret and longing fills her face. “I can’t go back there.”