Ruth floated through the shallows of consciousness. Muted sounds that could have been chatter, an occasional bell, and padded footsteps registered through the fog. A faint antiseptic odor like the surface of a Band-Aid filled her nostrils, and she was a little girl again, her mother applying Mercurochrome to her skinned knee.
“Ruth? Ruth Marriotti?” she heard her mother ask. Not her mother. Ruth forced herself to swim through the black. As she rose, the voice grew louder, the odor sharper. She cleared her throat, wanting her mother to know she was there, but she couldn’t quite speak. Still, something must have gotten through, because the woman calling her name replied.
“There you are.” Her voice was cheerful. “So glad you’re back, honey. Now, don’t open your eyes. You’re at Northwestern Hospital. Just relax and go back to sleep. You’re safe now.”
The next time Ruth surfaced, she cracked her eyes open. She saw the outlines of a room, curtained off in the center, the wall-mounted TV, and two plastic chairs. Then a piercing, agonizing pain obliterated everything else. She sucked in air and cried out. A few seconds later a woman in blue scrubs hurried through the door.
“You’re awake.”
“Hurts.” Ruth mumbled. Her tongue felt furry, her lips dry and split. She wasn’t sure the nurse understood.
But the woman nodded. “I bet it does.” The nurse went to Ruth’s IV bag on the pole beside her bed and adjusted the drip. A moment later blessed relief surged through. Ruth let herself relax.
“You thirsty?” the nurse asked. “I can get you some ice.”
Ruth nodded.
While she waited, Ruth tried to piece together what had brought her to this place. A half-formed thought nagged at her, but she couldn’t define it. Something bad had happened. Something really bad. She sank back into darkness.
The third time she woke, the accordion curtain separating her from the room’s other occupant was pulled back. Ruth wondered what had happened. Had the patient been released? Or did they die? She reached for her water and managed to sip it through the straw. Heat wafted over her from the register under the window. The absence of light seeping around the window shade indicated it was night. She felt dirty and unkempt and wanted to ditch the hospital garb and change into a clean nightgown. As soon as she realized she’d been thinking coherently, she congratulated herself for escaping whatever netherworld she’d dipped into.
Her thoughts turned to Dena. She’d been with Dena before it happened. They’d been doing something important. Something big. All of them. Wait. Where was Dena? They’d been waiting for her. Dena was late. Ruth was especially anxious. Why? She remembered. She was panicked that she might have to speak. The demonstration! That was it. Grant Park. Finally Dena arrived. But then what happened?
For some reason Ruth recalled the first words a nurse had said to her in recovery. She was safe here. Why wouldn’t she be? This was a hospital, after all. But she must have been unsafe before. In danger. What danger? In a flash, it came to her. Dena had been shot too. Ruth pressed the call button. The nurse rushed in.
“I remembered.”
“What’s that, honey?”
“Why I’m here.”
“Everything is fine. You had surgery for a gunshot wound. The bullet is gone, and it missed your spine. You should make a full recovery.”
“Dena. My friend Dena. She was shot too. How is she?”
The nurse tightened her lips.
She didn’t have to say it. Ruth knew. Dena was dead.