Four

Jasper

The woman from the bus walks me into the hospital and guides me toward the emergency room. I’m glad she knows where she’s going because, even though the bright red arrows point me toward the department, all the words and letters on the signs start to blur. I don’t even realize I’m crying until the dampness hits my cheeks.

When the hallway ends, I’m left staring at a metal detector, like we’re at the airport. I empty my pockets and walk through, swiping beneath my eyes to get rid of the weakness leaking from them.

The woman follows behind me and then points to the desk. “Check in with the receptionist first. Then, I want you to sit down and get your head on straight before you see her.”

“It’s fine. I’m good,” I tell her.

But she knows better. I’m not okay. Not even a little bit.

“What if Winnie doesn’t make it?” I ask her as I wait in line.

Her jaw tenses, and she takes my hand in hers, squeezing it the way my mom would. “We can’t think like that. Believe in the best possible outcome, and there’s a better chance it’ll happen.”

The best possible outcome would be starting this entire day over, so I could erase the sound of the gunshot from my memory. That way, Winnie would never know what a bullet felt like as it tore through her body. Her DNA wouldn’t be lying in a puddle in the parking lot of a shitty bar where people were probably more concerned about the beer they were missing out on than the life that could have been taken.

If I could go back in time, I’d go all the way back to the morning when we woke up next to each other—when I had her in my arms and the only thing we had to worry about was time. Time before my mom found her in bed with me. Time before Tess noticed she wasn’t in the trailer. A bunch of perfect seconds that added up quickly and showed me what I could have with Winnie.

“Thank you,” I tell the woman. “For getting me this far.”

She nods, and then I take a step toward the desk. The woman in front of the computer finishes what she’s doing, and when I take a nervous glance over my shoulder, the woman’s gone. I didn’t get her name, the department she worked in, or anything that would help me find her. I didn’t even get to say good-bye.

“Can I help you?” the receptionist asks.

She blinks a couple of times, and I realize I’m staring, looking through her instead of at her.

I try to say Winnie’s name, but it takes a couple of seconds to form the syllables. “Winnie Dawes.” My palms are damp, and they stick to a piece of paper lying on the counter. Seconds from now, I’ll find out the truth.

“Just a minute. Let me look.” Her long nails clack against the keys, and I swear, she types ten more letters than she needs to.

Isn’t there a list or something?

She bites her lip and tries something else, and my stomach flip-flops.

If Winnie’s gone, how will I go home? Every time I look out my bedroom window, I’ll see the trailer. When school starts in a couple of weeks, the familiar sight of her fighting with her combination lock each morning will disappear. And that shy smile of hers will be missing from the end of my day.

“It doesn’t look like she’s a patient in the emergency department anymore. Do you know when she was brought in?”

If I wasn’t holding on to the counter, I’d be on the ground. “Maybe an hour ago. Does that mean…is she…” I can’t say the words, so I say something else, “Could she be somewhere else?”

More typing, and then the girl’s eyes brighten. “Here she is. She’s an inpatient now. You’ll want to wait for her in the surgical waiting room on the fourth floor. They’ll be able to tell you more once she’s out.”

Surgical waiting room. Fourth floor. Surgery?

“Thank you.” I turn toward the double doors, step inside the first elevator that opens, and press the number four.

I wish I still had the woman from the bus with me because there’s nobody at the desk when I get off the elevator. The sign on the counter says to sign in and take a seat, so I scribble my name next to Winnie’s on the clipboard, and then choose one of the couches by the window. It’s dark outside, and I can’t see anything but my own reflection. I look as bad as I feel.

Then, I take a look around the room and realize I’m the only one who’s going to come here, looking for Winnie, the only person who even knows she was shot. She doesn’t have a mother or a father huddled in the corner, saying prayers. No sister or brother screwing around on their phones while they wait for news. All Winnie has is a stepmother being processed at the county jail for shooting her. We’re in this situation because of Winnie’s family.

Minutes turn into hours, and each time someone wearing scrubs gets close, I lift my head, hoping it’s news about Winnie. But nobody comes. I even get up to look around, just in case there’s someone waiting that I didn’t see come in—a distant relative, a cousin, a neighbor, anyone. There isn’t.

Her surgery continues through a shift change, and a new receptionist sits behind the computer. The one finishing her shift points to me and then whispers to the new girl. I’m not sure what she says, but at least they know I’m still waiting. By two in the morning, my eyes are so heavy that, if I don’t get up, I’ll be asleep. All the other families are long gone, and I’m the only one left waiting. I should have heard something by now, one way or the other.

Just as I stand up, the receptionist walks toward me.

“Do you have news?” I ask her.

She shakes her head, killing the little bit of hope she carried across the room with her. “Not about her condition. But Winnie’s on the sixth floor. In the trauma-neuro intensive care unit.”

“She is? That’s good, right?”

“It’s progress,” she says.

“How long has she been out of surgery? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“I’ve been watching the screen for you. Unfortunately, the surgeons will only talk to immediate family about their patients.”

I knew there was a chance this could happen, but I thought for sure that Winnie’s circumstances would be considered special. Because, if there was no family to report to, wouldn’t the doctors at least want to speak to someone who knew her? Someone who cared?

As I take another elevator to a new floor, I decide honesty isn’t going to get me anywhere. If I want to hear about Winnie, I’m going to have to pretend I’m her family. I don’t care how much trouble I’ll get into as long as I can see her tonight.

This time, when the elevator doors open, the hospital stench is stronger—like they just doused the floor with some bleach or something. A narrow hallway leads to another shiny floor with a bunch of quiet nurses standing behind desks on wheels. There’s no way I’ll find Winnie or get by them without some help.

The first person to notice me is a younger nurse. She’s unloading a cart of supplies. I’m sure I look like a fish out of water, and I desperately hope she throws me a life raft.

“Who are you looking for?” she asks in a warm, calm voice.

I lick my lips and clear my throat, and then I tell her, “Winnie Dawes.”

Without looking at a computer like the receptionists did, she glances to the right. I follow her eyes to the guard standing against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

“Room seven-eleven,” she says. “But I’m sorry; she’s not allowed to have any visitors.”

I forgot all about the security. Winnie was shot, the victim of a crime, and getting through a line of nurses should have been the least of my worries.

“I’ve been here for hours. You have to let me see her.”

“Her father left strict orders. Immediate family only.”

The word father slaps me across the face, and I almost blurt out something stupid. Winnie’s dad is dead.

My tongue is heavy, like it’s afraid to spew a lie, but I risk the bad Karma anyway. What other choice do I have? “I’m her brother.”

Our last names don’t match, so it’ll be a tough sell, but a lot of kids have different moms and dads these days. I can’t leave until I figure out who is in that room with Winnie.

The nurse motions me to the desk, and she hands me a piece of paper. “Sign this form, and then I’ll give you a new sticker. You’ll be able to come and go during visiting hours as long as you’re wearing it.”

I jot down my real name and pull the old sticker off my shirt, crumpling it up. Once the new one’s in place, she glances at my chest and asks for ID. I’m sure my hands are as shaky as my voice when I hand it over to her. A quick glance between the plastic and my sticker, and she seems to approve. I watch her scribble something down on a clipboard, and then she points to Winnie’s room.

“You can go in. She’s still sedated.”

That was too easy. So easy that I hesitate, like I’m about to be hauled away by security for lying. If I was able to make something up on the fly, imagine what a little planning could do. Anyone could be sitting in that room with Winnie right now, pretending to be her father.

Stay cool, Jasper.

Another couple of steps, and I hear a man’s voice. He’s sitting on the edge of her bed, holding her hand and stroking her cheek with the back of his finger. The words become whispers, and I think he might be crying.

If I didn’t want to see Winnie so badly, I’d probably turn around and disappear. But I’ve waited too long, and she means too much to me to give up now.

He doesn’t notice me at first, and when I have the courage, I clear my throat and say, “Trey.”

Without turning around, he keeps ahold of Winnie’s hand and says, “It took you long enough.”

For a couple of minutes, Winnie’s heartbeat is the only sound in the room. It’s the most amazing sound I’ve ever heard. Each beep is a reminder of how close she came to death. How close she still might be to leaving me.

But, for now, I still have her. And I won’t let go, even with Trey a foot away from me, claiming her as his own.