Total pages in book: 198
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 186242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 931(@200wpm)___ 745(@250wpm)___ 621(@300wpm)
He didn’t move for so long I thought for sure he was going to keep arguing and I was going to have to call 911, but in the span of a couple of breaths I sucked in through my nose, he must have come to a decision because he slowly tried to climb to his feet.
Thank God, thank God, thank God.
There were tearstains down his cheeks.
He moaned.
He groaned.
Grunted.
And I knew I saw a couple fresh tears stream down his sweaty face. He had the beginnings of his father’s sharp features, but leaner, younger, without the rugged maturity. One day he would though. He couldn’t fucking have his appendix rupture on me. No way.
The teenager leaned against me big-time, whimpering but trying his damnedest not to.
The fifty feet to my car felt like ten miles, and I regretted not driving over. But I got him into the passenger seat and leaned over to strap his seat belt on. Then I ran around the back and got behind the wheel, turning it on and then pausing.
“Amos, can I borrow your phone? Can I try to call your dad again for you? Or your uncle? Or your mom? Anybody? Somebody?”
He pretty much threw his phone at me.
Okay.
Then he muttered a few numbers I figured were his lock code.
He leaned against the window, his face this pale bronze that bordered on a shade of green, and he looked about ready to projectile vomit.
Fuck.
Blasting the air-conditioning, I grabbed an old grocery bag from under my seat and set it on his leg. “In case you want to throw up, but don’t sweat it if you don’t make it. I was thinking about trading this in anyway.”
He said nothing, but one more tear made its way down his cheek, and suddenly, I wanted to cry too.
But I didn’t have time for that shit.
Unlocking his phone, I went straight to his recent contacts. Sure enough, his last call had been to his dad about ten minutes ago. There was still barely just enough cell service for a call, and I tried again. It rang and rang. This was my luck.
I glanced at the boy as a standard “The caller you are trying to reach is currently unavailable” recording popped up, and I waited for the beep.
I could do this. It wasn’t like I had another choice. “Hi, Mr. Rhodes, this is Aurora. Ora, whatever. I’m taking Amos to the hospital. I don’t know which one. Is there more than one in Pagosa? I think he might have appendicitis. I found him outside with a lot of stomach pain. I’ll call you when I know where I’m taking him. I have his phone. Okay, bye.”
Well, that lack of information might come back and kick me in the ass, but I didn’t want to waste time on the phone explaining. There was a hospital I needed to find and get to. Stat.
I backed up, made it to the road where I’d learned I got some cell reception, opened my navigation app, found the nearest medical facility—there was an emergency room and one hospital—and set it to navigate. Then with my other hand, I grabbed Amos’s phone again, cast one more glance at the poor kid who was opening and closing his fist, his body faintly trembling with what I could only assume was pain, and asked, “What’s your uncle’s name?”
He didn’t look at me. “Johnny.”
I winced and turned the knob for the air conditioner as cold as it could get when I spotted a bead of sweat at his temple. It wasn’t hot; he was just feeling that bad. Shit.
Then I pressed down on the gas pedal. As fast as I could, I drove.
I wanted to ask him if maybe he felt any better, but he wouldn’t even lift his head, instead just resting it against the window as he took turns groaning and grunting and moaning.
“I’m going as fast as I can,” I promised as we wound down the hill to the highway. Luckily, the house was on the side of town closest to the hospital and not clear on the other end.
One of his fingers lifted in acknowledgment. Maybe.
At the stop sign, I scrolled through his contacts and found one for an Uncle Johnny. I hit dial and put it on speakerphone, holding it in my left hand as I turned right.
The “Am, my guy” came clear through the phone.
“Hi, is this Johnny?” I replied.
There was a long pause and then an “Uh, yeah. Who’s this?”
I didn’t exactly sound like a teenage girl, I got it. “Hi, this is Aurora. I’m, uh, Amos’s and Mr. Rhodes’s neighbor.”
Silence.
“Amos seems really sick, and his dad isn’t answering, and I’m taking him to the hospital—”
“What?”
“His stomach hurts, and I think it might be his appendix, but I don’t know his birthday or if he has insurance—”