Izzie was stuck. In a hospital bed. It was all Allen Jacobson’s fault, but she wasn’t complaining any longer.
After the initial round of meds had failed to do what Dr. Jacobson had expected—apparently, he wanted miracles—the man had admitted her. Over her protests.
Every time she’d said something, he’d argued right over her.
No matter how she told him that she was routinely struggling with her asthma, and that this wasn’t much different than normal.
It hadn’t been enough for him. Dictator.
Cherise had put her in room 403—that was what had her finally complying would have stayed in there all night, anyway. Nikkie Jean was sound asleep in the second bed when Jillian and Cherise railroaded her into 403, in conjunction with the Dictator.
Cherise filled her in on what she knew about Nikkie Jean as she handed Izzie the indignifying hospital gown and told her to get changed.
They’d found Nikkie Jean two hours after the storm hit. Nikkie Jean hadn’t wakened fully since. Wallace Henedy hadn’t taken a blood test or anything to find out. They didn’t know why; it was listed that she’d most likely hit her head. There was a bruise on her temple.
Izzie had a lot of questions.
Izzie settled into the chair between the beds.
So her friends didn’t have to wake alone.