Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Eventually, more consciousness returned in the form of an awareness that I was cold and stiff. I needed to stretch but couldn’t. Frustration drove sleep further away.
“And then the vicar made his way out of the garden, heading home for teatime.” Teatime? The heck? Had I landed in England? But the voice speaking was distinctly American male, warm and rich with a slight hint of west like Colorado or Wyoming. “The striped cat followed behind the vicar, prowling proudly.”
“I don’t like cats,” I mumbled, mouth all cottony and dry. My eyes weren’t much better, crusty and bleary as I blinked them open. I went to rub them but couldn’t. Something sharp pinched my arm. “Ouch.”
I looked down. An IV needle was taped in place in my right arm. I was no stranger to those. I groaned, which hurt more than my arm.
“Fuck. I’m in the hospital.” Becoming more awake, I took in my surroundings. Yep, I was in a hospital bed. Should have guessed because I was sleeping on my back, not my stomach like normal. I was hooked up to a ton of machines, all whirring and beeping. The room seemed hazy, like maybe the lights were too dim. And next to me sat a vaguely familiar gentle giant of a dude. Maybe late thirties or so. Soft-looking hair. Beard. Kind eyes. His thoughtful expression bloomed into a slow smile.
“You’re awake. And noted on cats.” Ah. This was the source of the soothing voice, which fit the man’s vibe.
“Who are you?” I asked, voice rusty.
“I’m Jonas. A friend of your dad’s, and I’m texting him now.” Jonas held up his phone as he typed fast. “He’s going to be thrilled.”
“He’s here?” Fuck. I had to be in rough shape if they’d sent for Dad.
“Yep. Denver too.” Jonas’s gaze turned cautious like I might object to that news. “Everyone’s been worried sick for you.”
“How…? How bad is it?”
Jonas sucked in a breath, hesitating.
“Give it to me straight.” I narrowed my eyes. This Jonas seemed like the honest type, less likely to sugarcoat the situation.
“You had a crash while racing. Do you remember that?”
“Not really, but it sounds likely. Was I winning?” I wasn’t so far gone that I’d forgotten who I was. Declan. Declan. My ears rang with a memory of the crowd roaring. I managed a pained laugh. It wasn’t my first rodeo with cracked ribs, but Jonas’s solemn expression said there was more wrong.
“Yeah, you were winning.” Jonas’s smile turned almost tender, laced with a sadness that made my very empty stomach clench. “And then you crashed off a jump. They had to airlift you from the track to the medical complex here in Salt Lake. Broken ankle. Broken tibia. Sprained wrist. Some cracked ribs. Lots of bruising.”
“Nothing that won’t heal by spring,” I scoffed, already calculating the start of the next racing series. Jonas didn’t join my attempt at laughter. “What else?”
“You have a TBI. It’s a brain injury, like a bad concussion.”
“Oh. Like football players get.” I quirked my lips, considering whether or not to be alarmed. “I’ve had my bell rung a time or two before.”
“I’m sure.” Jonas’s voice turned dry, not nearly as impressed as some would be. “But this time, you had a brain bleed. You needed surgery.”
“Surgery?” I reached toward my head only for the arm with the IV, my side, and my shoulder to protest before I could connect with my head. “Ow. Fuck.”
“Don’t try to reach.” Jonas reached over to gently tuck my arm back by my side, like that might keep me. He glanced down at my IV port with more than passing interest. Ah. Yeah, if he was a friend of Dad’s, he was likely some flavor of first responder. “Honestly, I’m absolutely shocked at how well you’re speaking. Time will show if all your other faculties are intact.”
“Faculties?” I narrowed my eyes, which hurt. “Ow. Thinking hurts.” Speaking wasn’t a problem, but my head felt like someone had kicked the video game up to hard mode without telling me or like my brain had less power than usual. “Faculty? Like teachers?”
“No, like walking, moving your hands, fine motor skills, vision. Speaking of, is the light in here too bright? You keep blinking and squinting.” Jonas reached over, doing something to the lights, which made things worse, not better. The fuzzy film at the edges of my peripheral vision grew wider in the dimmer light, but my growing headache receded a little.
“Bright? Nah. I could do without the weird hazy air in here and how dry my fucking eyes are…” I trailed off as it hit me that the problem wasn’t the lighting. “Fuck. My vision’s wonky. Hell. Always been twenty-twenty. Better not need glasses.”
“Don’t get too worked up.” Jonas patted my hand, carefully placing his larger hand below my IV site. He had a warm, sturdy touch. “The vision changes might be temporary. These sorts of injuries take time.”