The afternoon is long and filled with worry. Did she do a good enough job? Will the stitches hold? Did she disinfect the wound well enough or will he get an infection? But most of all, what the hell happened out on that beach? As he rests in bed, she stays by his side, not out of devotion to the man, but out of professionalism. She monitors his wounds and his vitals as he sleeps, but her mind can’t help but wonder.
That boat, was its driver who did this to him? And if so, where is he now? The questions only compound. Why would a man drive his boat here just to attack Banks? And why would Banks yell for her to run? Would he have attacked her too? The questions have no answers and the answers, if she knew them, probably wouldn’t comfort her.
Alfonso and Ricardo come in and check on them every hour or so, asking how he’s doing and seeing if there’s anything they can do for her. It’s sweet, but the conversations are short. Each time they come, Amber wants to ask them about the gunshot wound, about what happened, about Banks in general, and each time she chickens out, afraid of what the answers might be. She tells herself she can’t worry about that, that she needs to simply focus on making sure Banks is okay, that he stays alive. In all honesty, she doesn’t even know exactly how he’s doing. She has no machinery to check his vitals, no stethoscope, or scans, she’s treating him with boiling water, alcohol, and blankets. Hell, she even sutured his wound with fishing line. At least she remembered to sterilize everything the best she could.
Chef García has come with more food for her than she could eat in a week. Though she’s picked at it, it’s beginning to pile up on the dresser. It’s nice and generous, but Banks can’t eat anything, and she’s too stressed to get more than a few bites down. Even the accountant, Mr. Hernandez, has come more than once. Unsure what to offer, he simply sits a minute or so each time, thanking her before he leaves.
They all keep thanking her as if she saved them, instead of their asshole boss. They keep saying how grateful and relieved they are to have her here. She can’t tell if they are simply thankful their boss didn’t die, so that he can keep paying them, or if it’s something more. Banks is horrible and she wouldn’t have been surprised if they were glad to be rid of him, but there’s obviously something more. There’s something she’s missing between this man and his employees. What he said pops back into her head…You know nothing about how I treat my employees…and she realizes, that’s true.
The man has been horrible, a genuine nightmare of a boss. And yet, he hasn’t fired her. He hasn’t made a pass at her, or made any sexual or lude comments about her. He hasn’t overworked her, or underpaid her. He hasn’t done anything but not want her around. Something, when her low self-esteem kicks in, she can completely understand.
Her only complaint really, is his lack of compassion. Even the yelling she can live with. Doctors yell all the time, she can handle that. It’s not how he speaks, it’s what he says. The man finds all the right buttons and pushes them without remorse. Yet somehow, his employees seem to care about him greatly. Something only a day ago she wouldn’t have believed, but this afternoon has changed her perspective. Their concern, it’s clear, is not for their jobs, but for the man himself. They worry and thank her as if she’s some sort of savior, but she feels like nothing more than a little girl, wishing for the best.
A knock at the door tells her yet another visit is coming. It’s soft and reserved, trying to keep from waking their boss. The door cracks and Ricardo pokes his head in. Amber nods and he comes in, followed closely by Alfonso. The two have very different actions. Alfonso immediately moves to Banks, looking over him, for what, Amber isn’t sure. Ricardo, however, gives nothing more than a glance to Banks, his focus is on Amber and how she’s doing. Surprisingly, she prefers Alfonso’s approach to the situation. It’s sweet that Ricardo is so concerned for her, but attention like that makes her feel uncomfortable.
“How’s he doing?” Alfonso asks.
“The same as an hour ago.”
The man gives her a look that she can only identify as a highly professional stink eye.
“He’s doing fine,” she adds.
“Have you given him his meds? He needs to take his meds.”
“He’s in and out of consciousness, I’m not forcing medication on him if I don’t know what it is, or even what it’s for.”
“Okay fine, but he’ll be able to go to the summit right? And the soiree after that?”
Amber has no idea what he’s talking about, but now isn’t the time for questions.
“Like I’ve said, I’m not a doctor.”
“But he’s—”
“—Fine. At the moment,” Amber interrupts, and the comment seems to calm Alfonso enough.
“And you, how are you doing?” Ricardo asks. “Do I need to get the Chef to whip you up something specific to eat?”
Amber wonders if he’s missed the mountain of food on the dresser or if he thinks she simply hates most foods and will only eat something very specific.
“No, I’m fine. Just keeping an eye on him and trying to read,” she says as a slight hint that they are interrupting her.
“Unless there’s anything else. We’ll leave you to it then,” Alfonso says, making his way back toward the door.
Amber looks at the man lying on the bed, asleep. The sutured wound on his side is visible in the soft glow of the room’s light. If she doesn’t ask, it will eat away at her, but if she does ask, she may get an answer she doesn’t want to hear. The pull to know causes her mouth to open but no words come out.
“Amber,” Ricardo asks. “Is there anything else?”
“His wound, the one on his side,” she finally blurts out.
“What’s wrong?” Alfonso jumps in. “Are the stitches not holding? An infection?”
“No. No, he’s fine. It’s just that, it looks like wounds I’ve seen before. Well not exactly, but close.”
“What are you getting at?” Alfonso asks.
“Was he shot?”
The two men look at each other. That same silent argument dancing in their eyes. This one is subtle, but still there. They are unsure what to say, what to tell her.
“He yelled for me to run. I need to know if I’m safe here.”
The question seems to end their argument.
“You are very safe here,” Ricardo says.
“And that is not a gunshot wound,” Alfonso adds.
“But the boat—”
“A local sport fisherman who didn’t know this was a private beach. We spoke with him and he’s already left.”
“So what attacked Banks then? What was he scared of? And why did he yell for me to run?”
The two look to each other again but there’s no argument this time.
“Puma,” one says. “Jaguar,” the other says at the same time. They look to each other again before turning back to Amber.
“Either way, a big cat,” Ricardo says. “Or a crocodile. Hell, even a sloth’s claws could cause that kind of damage.”
“Costa Rica has a lot of dangerous animals,” Alfonso adds, “but attacks are rare. Banks probably accidentally got between a mother and her cubs. You are safe here. Whatever animal did this to him, is surely long gone by now.”
“The wound just really looks like—”
“Did you hear a gunshot Ms. Klow?” Alfonso asks. “Cause I didn’t. And poaching is strictly illegal. It was an animal, and it was a freak accident. There is nothing to worry about.”
“If you’re scared, maybe just don’t take walks alone in the jungle,” Ricardo says, and Alfonso elbows him in the side. “What? She knows I’m kidding of course,” he says with a wink.
Amber smiles and can feel herself relax. Ricardo has a way of doing that, and despite his proper all business attitude, Alfonso is actually quite comforting too.
“Okay. Thanks for clearing that up for me. I guess I’m just not used to seeing claw wounds in San Diego.”
“Exactly. We’ll leave you to your book now.”
“And make sure you get some rest tonight as well,” Ricardo adds as they slip out the door.
She feels better having asked. They wouldn’t lie, there would be no reason to. A jaguar’s claw could easily have made that kind of gash in Banks’s side. It makes more sense than a random guy shooting Banks and then disappearing into the jungle, leaving his boat behind.
“Ms. Klow.”
The words come soft, and yet almost make her jump out of her skin. Banks has been sleeping for hours, stirring momentarily to moan in pain, but he would quickly be out again. His sudden words snap her from her thoughts and pull her attention to the man. His eyes open but he doesn’t look at her.
“What’s wrong with me?”
The question is so straightforward it nearly catches Amber off guard. Though she doesn’t know exactly, she has a pretty good understanding.
“You have a suture on the left side of your abdomen. Two gashes across your left forearm. Likely a couple fractured ribs. A swollen eye and a bump the size of a grapefruit on the side of your head, which I would say almost certainly means you also have a concussion.”
“No,” he says, his head tilting from side to side. “What’s wrong with my head?”
Confused, but understanding, she repeats, “You have a concussion, you probably—”
“No,” he says more firmly now. “I’ve had concussions. Why are my eyes unfocused and the room won’t stop spinning?”
The realization kicks in and she’s embarrassed to answer the question, but it is her job.
“We didn’t have any pain medication, so…we basically force fed you guaro until you passed out. I know that’s not the best thing when you’re bleeding a lot, because alcohol thins your blood, which will cause you to bleed more, but that I could deal with, knowing how much pain I was causing, I couldn’t.”
Amber braces for the anger, for the retribution, for the fury at further endangering him, but it doesn’t come. Instead, Banks only smiles.
“After what I said to you, I would have thought you’d enjoy causing me a little pain.”
Amber can’t help but smile back.
“I might have.”
The man may be obnoxiously vile, but at least he knows it. He laughs, surprising her once again. The evil Banks has a sense of humor, she never would have guessed. But the laugh is short lived, as he winces in pain from the movement.
“Rest,” she says. “I’m not going anywhere.”
His eyes close once again.
“Wouldn’t want to miss any of my misery, now would you?”
The man makes her smile once again.
“Not a chance,” she replies.