Matt Archer: Bloodlines by Kendra C. Highley

Author:Kendra C. Highley [Highley, Kendra C.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2014-01-07T23:00:00+00:00

* * *

“Dude, you look like hell,” Will croaked.

I laughed. “Look who’s talking.”

He shifted in the hospital bed. “Yeah, you win.”

Will was pale and his arm had a big cast on it, but otherwise he looked okay. Well, aside from the normal healing bruises and scabs. I had those, too, so they didn’t really count.

“Seen your dad yet?”

I stared at the ugly blanket at the foot of Will’s bed, not sure I was ready to talk about it. “He was asleep. I’ll stop by again later.”

He really had been asleep, but I could’ve stuck around until he woke up. It was just…the sight of him hooked up to a heart monitor and IV, with his leg resting propped up on cushions and a chest tube snaking out of his hospital gown, made my palms go slick with sweat. Uncle Mike had stood with a hand on my shoulder as we watched Dad struggle to breathe, even now.

“The doctors say once they clear his chest cavity of air and fluid, the lung will reinflate on its own. The punctures have given him some trouble, but he’ll heal,” Mike had said.

The unspoken question was “then what?”

Now I wouldn’t meet Will’s eye. I didn’t want pity or sympathy from a guy in a hospital bed, not when I walked in here on both legs. Especially given my next stop. “Hey, if you’re okay, I’m going to check in on Davis.”

“I wheeled over there yesterday. He’s doing better than I expected.”

Even hearing that, I dreaded this visit more than seeing Dad all banged up. I trudged down the hallway, avoiding nurses who gave me funny looks because of my camo. Or maybe because of my yellow-green bruises. Or maybe it was the pinched pain tugging at my eyes. Royal Perth hospital was nice, and one of the biggest in the city, but it was still a hospital, and I didn’t like them. Not after baby Kate’s stint in the NICU or my own time spent attached to an IV. Still, their Royal Flying Doctor Service had saved both Davis’s and Dad’s lives, so I knew how lucky I was to be here.

When I reached Davis’s room, a familiar rumbling laugh came from inside. If Johnson was here, that would make things easier. I knocked, then let myself in.

Davis sat up in bed, his injured leg wound in gauze like a mummy. The bandages started just above his knee, and ended in a stump mid-calf. I tried not stare, but it was hard to tear my eyes away.

“Archer,” Davis said in his usual dry tone, “It’s not going to bite you. Why don’t you come in and have a seat.”

Flushing, I slunk inside and took the chair next to Johnson. It was one of those uncomfortable wooden straight-backed numbers and I fidgeted around, not sure what to do with my hands. Or my legs. Or, hell, all of me.

“Anyway,” Davis said, “They’ll transfer me back to Walter Reed in a few weeks to fit me with a prosthesis and start my rehab.

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