Teddy came to in a hospital bed. He was vaguely aware of where he was. He blinked and tried to focus. There were a zillion tubes attached to him dripping fluids in and out. They restricted his movement, not that he was going anywhere. He hurt all over, a muted, dull pain. He figured one of the drips must be morphine. His pain was localized in his left leg, his head, and his chest. Just as he’d envisioned, the sniper had blown him off the beam. He should have trusted his instinct. Well, next time.
Tessa’s face appeared through the haze. “You’re awake! Thank God!”
“What are you doing here?”
“I was worried about you.”
“Why aren’t you on the set?”
“I’m done. Peter’s shooting your scenes now.”
“What?”
“When Peter found out you were going to make it, he called the stunt double, and he’s shooting him.”
“Is it working?”
“It’s working fine. Peter caught your fall on film—it was perfect, by the way—and so all he needs to shoot is the low beam. Peter knows camera angles, and he’s doing it with a stunt double.”
“Does he need me to shoot close-ups?”
“You couldn’t, even if he wanted you to. Your leg is broken, you were shot, and you have a concussion. Your head is wrapped in bandages. You look like a mummy.”
Teddy reached up and felt the bandage.
Tessa shook her head. “I begged you to use a double for the stunt.”
A nurse bustled in. “Well, well, look who joined the party. All right, miss. You’ve seen he’s alive, and the doctor’s coming. Don’t get me in trouble now.”
Tessa went out. Teddy closed his eyes. When he opened them again the doctor was examining him.
“Ah, there we are,” the doctor said. “How are you feeling?”
“I thought you were supposed to tell me.”
“My pleasure. You have a concussion, a broken leg, and a cracked rib from where the bullet grazed your side. The good news is your leg was not broken clean through. You have a fractured fibula. I operated and put a pin in it. Stay off it for three months and you’ll be good as new. They’ll teach you how to use the crutches in physical therapy.”
“When can I get out of here?”
“Oh, sometime next week.”
“That won’t do.”
“It will have to. You have a concussion. We have to monitor you to see if you’re impaired.”
“Give me a test.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Then get me out of the damn mummy costume and check out my head. I bet the swelling’s gone down, or whatever the hell else is bothering you.”
“Leave your bandages on or I’ll put you in ICU. It was a fifty-fifty call whether you went there to begin with.”
Teddy sank back in the bed in helpless frustration.