Page 122 of Clinically Bewitched
My wife was in there.
And I was out here, useless, helpless, unable to do anything except stand in this hallway and wait.
“Can I—” I started.
“Not yet,” Nathan said. “Let them work. You know the protocol.”
I did know the protocol. I’d written half of it. But knowing the protocol and following it when it wasmy wifein that room were two entirely different things.
Hayden appeared at my elbow, his usual sarcasm completely absent. “Julien. Sit down.”
“I don’t need to sit.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine,” Gabriel said quietly, materializing on my other side. “And that’s okay. But please sit down before you fall down.”
I didn’t sit. I couldn’t sit. If I sat, if I stopped moving, if I let myself think for even one second about what might be happening in that room.
Aneurysm.
Stroke.
Tumor.
Hemorrhage.
Something I missed.
Something I should have seen.
Something I could have prevented if I’d been paying attention instead of being happy.
“Julien,” Quinton said, his voice uncharacteristically gentle. “She’s in good hands. Fitz and Morrison are two of the best docs we have.”
“I know.”
“And Morrison is—”
“I know.”
I knew. I knew they were competent. I knew they were skilled. I knew they would do everything possible.
But it didn’t matter.
Because none of them loved her.
None of them had woken up next to her this morning. None of them had listened to her talk about cosmic energy and crystal vibrations and the universe’s plan. None of them had—“JULIEN!”
I turned.
Stevie and Woody were running down the hallway, both looking panicked in a way I had never seen before. Stevie’s usual serene, hippie composure was completely gone. Woody’s perpetual smile had vanished. They looked like parents whose child was in danger.
Because she was.
“Where is she?” Stevie demanded, reaching me. “Where’s Athena?”
