Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 98176 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 491(@200wpm)___ 393(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Nobody pays me any attention as I walk in, and I keep my head down, angling my face away from the cameras in the corners. As far as I know, my picture isn’t on the news yet, but it’s best not to risk it.
Inside is the usual ER pandemonium, with several new arrivals mobbing the admitting nurse, demanding to be seen right now, and a half-dozen nurses and doctors clustered around two patients strapped to gurneys, with one screaming about the bloody mess that is his leg, and the other in the midst of what appears to be a major seizure.
At the back is a staff-only entrance. The nurses wheel the screaming patient there, and I follow them in, pretending I’m with him. One nurse tries to shoo me away, but someone yells for her, and she disappears down the hall, forgetting all about me.
I follow the gurney without anyone else noticing me, and when we pass by a supply closet, I step in and close the door behind me.
At the back are folded-up scrubs, linens, bandages, medication samples, and first-aid supplies. I quickly change out of my clothes and into nurse’s scrubs, wipe as much blood as I can off my face with a pillowcase, and stuff whatever I deem useful into a bag I fashion out of a sheet. Then I cover my haul with more bunched-up linens and head out, pretending I’m carrying soiled sheets to be washed.
No one says anything as I reenter the ER reception area and head to the exit, making sure the bundle in my arms is blocking my face from the cameras blinking in the corners.
Getting back to the car, I find Peter still unconscious.
“All good, I’m here now,” I say as I place the bundle of supplies at his feet. “Everything will be okay.”
He can’t hear me, but that doesn’t matter.
It’s myself I’m trying to convince.
He’s too heavy for me to undress properly, so I push up his sleeve and cut apart the leg of his jeans to get to those wounds. Among my pilfered supplies are mild soap and a saline solution, and I mix them with water to wash away all the blood and dirt near his wounds. Contrary to popular wisdom, it’s a bad idea to use strong antiseptics to clean wounds; rubbing alcohol and such are likely to damage tissue and slow the healing process.
When I’m satisfied that the wounds are sufficiently clean and no bullet fragments remain inside, I stitch up and bandage them, starting with the wound at his side. As I work, I thank the powers that be for my residency stint in the ER and all the gunshot victims I’d treated there.
Still, my hands are shaking by the time I’m done, and I realize the adrenaline high is beginning to wear off.
That’s not good.
There’s still a lot that needs to get done before I crash.
“I have to step away for a few more minutes, okay? So just hang in there for me, darling,” I whisper, stroking Peter’s face. Leaning in, I press a gentle kiss to his hard jaw and pull away, telling myself that all I need now is a little luck.
A little luck and a lot of balls.
My legs are unsteady as I head toward the ER again. This is the least sure part of my plan, one that relies on too many exogenous factors. By now, our faces might be splashed all over the news, the manhunt kicking into full gear. All it would take is one nosy stranger, and a police/FBI swarm will descend upon us.
Maybe this is a mistake.
Maybe I should just get back in the car and drive, praying that by some miracle, no one has put out an APB on our vehicle.
I’m about to turn back and do exactly that when a blue older-model Toyota screeches into the parking lot, stopping right by the entrance. “Help!” an elderly woman shouts, opening the door, and I rush over to her, helping her get her semi-conscious husband out.
By the looks of him, he’s just had a stroke.
Two nurses run out of the ER to help, and I unobtrusively step away, letting them usher in the patient and his frantic wife. The car is left unattended, the driver’s door open, and when I peek inside, I see the keys in the ignition.
Bingo.
The ER staff usually send out someone to move the vehicle in such situations, but if they come out and find it gone, they’ll most likely assume it has already been moved by someone.
It won’t occur to them to report the car stolen until the patient’s wife returns and can’t find it.
I feel terrible as I slide behind the wheel and drive the Toyota toward our car. I can only imagine how stressed out the poor woman will be when she has to deal with a stolen car on top of her husband’s stroke. But there’s no choice—not with Peter’s life on the line.