Page 257 of Disarm
“Hey,” he blurts, eyes going wide. He looks like he hasn’t slept in years. “Hey, pretty boy. Hi.”
His voice cracks on the last word.
“Hi,” I croak.
It sounds like I swallowed glass.
Feels like it too.
Miguel’s mouth wobbles. “You scared the shit out of me,” he says, which is fair.
I try to say sorry and it comes out as a croaky breath.
A shape moves in my peripheral vision. I drag my eyes over. There’s a nurse in blue scrubs at the other side of the bed, fingers on my wrist. Her face is kind and brisk at the same time. “Good morning, Caleb,” she says. “Or… afternoon, technically. I’m Cassie. You gave us a bit of a scare.”
“Bit,” Miguel repeats under his breath, like the word personally offends him.
“We’re going to do a quick check, okay?” Cassie says, ignoring him with professional grace. “Can you tell me your full name?”
“Caleb… Alexander Burton,” I manage. My tongue feels three sizes too big.
“Good,” she says. “Do you know where you are?”
I blink at the ceiling. “Hospital?”
“Yep,” she says. “Do you know what city we’re in?”
“Santa Cruz.” The words scrape their way out. “I—” My throat fights me. I swallow. “What… day?”
“Sunday,” Miguel supplies softly. “You’ve been kind of in and out for the past two days.”
Sunday.
I try to rewind. I remember the stats review. The dorms. The kitchen. The bathroom. The pills.
“Miggy…” The room tilts for a second and I shut my eyes, then open them again. “Did I…?”
Miguel’s hand tightens around mine. “You’re here,” he says quickly. “That’s the important part. We can fill in the rest later.”
My chest tightens. Shame curls up in my gut, hot and acidic. Like I’m gonna throw up.
Cassie’s hand is gentle on my shoulder. “You’re safe,” she says. “We’ve got you on fluids. The medication you took is working its way out of your system, and your labs look good so far. You’re going to be very sleepy and you might feel nauseated. That’s totally normal. Try not to fight the tired too much, okay? Sleep is your friend right now.”
Sleep.
Yeah, that tracks.
“What—” I shift my left hand and a sharp sting snakes up my arm. I glance down.
There’s a bandage around my wrist. Fresh white gauze, with a little blush of red seeping through in one spot.
Cassie follows my gaze. “We cleaned and dressed that cut,” she says evenly. “It’s not deep. You’re okay.”
I can’t look at it. I focus on Miguel instead.
He looks like a car hit him. Dark eye circles, jaw clenched, hair a tangle he obviously hasn’t bothered to deal with. There’s a faint bruise forming on his upper arm where he must’ve hit thedoor. He’s still in his work jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves stretched out. His boots are pushed under the chair, laces half untied like he kicked them off in a hurry.
I did that.
