But shock victims are treated with warmth and reassurance, and I am lumped into that prognosis. Warmth and reassurance. I do appreciate the blankets, the ambulance way too cold, no one else seemingly mindful of the frigid air. My teeth chatter, the blanket not enough, the second and third one helping slightly. They get moved, the blankets. They get lifted and adjusted as different parts of my body are examined. I feel the sharp prick of glass being pulled out, the wet flow of blood that is promptly stemmed.

Glass. I now remember the glass. It felt like a blast of desert air, shards instead of sand, a wall of getthehellouttatheway coming too fast, too soon, my shock at the explosion leaving me vulnerable for a moment too long before reflexes kicked in and I ducked, covering my face, turning my body away from the blast. My eyes had been closed, my mouth moving in silent prayer, the sound of the explosion confusing me, a moment of absolute quiet before insanity boomed. In the brief pause of life, I had opened my eyes. Even though it exposed the most vulnerable piece of my body. But, I had to know, my curiosity sharing space with my fear.

I should have kept them closed. Now I have that image branded in my mind. The second ending of my life.

Warmth and reassurance. My body temperature is finally starting to rise. I blink, looking into the face of the too-calm paramedic, and will her to shut the hell up. I don’t want her words. I don’t want her words unless they speak the impossible. I want her to shut up, to stop talking before I roll my broken body off of this bed and silence her myself.

“Jeremy,” I whisper.

But she doesn’t respond. Doesn’t look up. Continues moving her mouth and saying words that don’t help. Words that don’t say what I want to hear.

“Jeremy?” I speak louder, asking it as more of a question, then repeating myself. Louder, because she is raising her brow as if she doesn’t understand.

Then the woman yells, her voice too loud, not calm, and I look at her in confusion, the sound piercing through me, the combination between it and my chattering teeth too loud for reasonable thought to occur. Then more faces appear, dotting the landscape, firm hands shoving incessantly on my torso, unnecessary as I am already lying down, and a mask appears, covers my nose and mouth, stale air pushing incessantly, too cold. My entire world is too cold, too dark. I fight my eyes but they close and the last thought I hold on to is one that doesn’t make sense. Jeremy.

CHAPTER 114

I COME BACK to sanity, or my best form of it, in a hospital. I blink, my lids crusted closed, the action of them slow and painful. My room is empty, no one sitting in the chair, no nurse standing by the ready. I celebrate the silence for a moment—a chance to gather my wits before someone comes in and sees my psychological vulnerability.

I turn my head slightly, testing my range of movement. Move my arms and legs. Everything works. Some bandages, nothing major. A woman in scrubs walks by the open door, pauses, reroutes into my room when she sees me.

“Good. You’re awake.” She lifts my chart from the door, steps in with a friendly smile. “How’re you feeling?”

I shrug, not sure of the correct response. Not sure what I want. Do I want to stay here a few nights? Enjoy the experience, live up my moment in the real world? Then I remember how I got here. Jeremy. My world dulls. “I’m fine.”

“We can get you back home as soon as the doctor checks you out. But let’s get you some food; you’ve got to be starved. Are you up for a phone call?”

“A phone call?” I ask slowly.

“Your boyfriend’s been calling.” She smiles. “A lot.” She rolls a tray to my bedside, opens a low refrigerator, and pulls out some generic purple form of Jell-O. Cracks it open with easy efficiency while I stare at her, trying to move my dry lips and get out words. “We can’t share anything about your condition without your consent, so he’s pretty worried. I know he’d love to hear your voice.”

“He’s alive?”

She shoots me an odd look. “Oh yes. Would you like me to get him on the phone?”

An impatient four minutes later, my phone rings, the nurse sticking her head in. “That’s him, dear.” I reach for it with eager hands.

My throat doesn’t cooperate, my greeting coming out hushed and scratchy. “Hello?”

“Dee.”

Anger surges through me, so strong I almost come off the bed. “You piece of shit.” The nurse’s smile fades and she flees the doorway, the swing of the door so quick that I feel a breeze.

“Deanna, please.” Mike’s voice is so strained I barely recognize it.