Boone sprinted from the parking lot into the hospital. He punched the button for the elevator and shoved back, watching the light. “C’mon, c’mon,” he muttered. His pulse hadn’t slowed since Rusty’s call an hour ago. Stupid traffic coming down Route 7 killed his timing. That and the cop who pulled him over.
With a ding, the elevator door slid open.
Boone threw himself forward—and skidded to a stop. An elderly woman shuffled forward. He slapped out a hand to keep the door open and secretly wanted to lift the woman and place her outside. Would’ve been faster.
“Thank you,” the woman said in a shaky, frail voice.
Hitting the third-floor button he stepped back. Clasped his hands. Glanced at the numbers above the door. Then to the still-open door. Why isn’t it closing already?
Finally, it slid shut. And the elevator slowly lifted.
Should’ve taken the stairs.
The lift alighted and the door took its time opening again. Boone shoved himself through the space as soon as he’d fit. Free of the box and its confinements, he jogged to the end of the hall.
Rusty stood outside, arms folded, pinching his lips as he stared through the wire-beveled glass.
“Rus,” Boone gruffed as he approached.
Off the wall, Rusty gave him a I’m really sorry expression.
“What’s happening?”
Rusty jutted his jaw in the direction of the room. A half-dozen doctors and medical staff were crowded around. An annoying noise rattled across Boone’s hearing, but he was focused on Keeley’s form. Almost as frail as the old woman from the elevator.
“They’re not sure,” Rusty said. “She’s been flatlining on and off for the last thirty minutes.”
“Why?” Boone growled. “She was almost ready to come home.”
“They’re running tests. Checking for an internal bleed or injury they missed. . .” Rusty folded his arms. “I’m sorry, man.”
“Not your fault,” Boone muttered as he moved to the window. He planted his hands on the blue-painted steel frame. His breath, warm against the cool glass, bloomed in a fog.
Too many scrubs-covered bodies blocked his view. He leaned to the side, trying to see around them, but it was no good. Boone pushed off and went to the door.
A doctor stepped out, a hand going to Boone’s chest.
Though everything in him wanted to take that hand and secure it behind the doc’s shoulder blade, Boone restrained himself. “What’s wrong? What happened to her?”
“Mr. Ramage, that’s what we’re working to figure out.” He pointed with a clipboard to a corner of the hall then walked that way. Once they were out of traffic and earshot of the others in the corridor, the doctor sighed.
“She was fine. You told me she would be waking up any day. I’m gone for four days, and I get a call that she’s on the verge of death. What happened?” Boone demanded, glancing to the room as another nurse exited. As the door slid shut, two nurses moved in opposite directions, and for a split second Boone saw Keeley.
Or rather, a ghost of Keeley. A strange tinge colored her face and made her look drawn. Aged. Her lips were almost blue.
“Look, I. . .” The doctor scrubbed the back of his head.
“What aren’t you telling me? You have a theory, don’t you?”
Again, the doc sighed. “I don’t. I wish I did, because then we could attempt to be proactive, but. . .I’m confounded. It makes no sense.”
Eyes on where Keeley’s toes pushed up the blanket, Boone willed her not to leave him. “I just don’t understand how we went from ‘she’s coming home soon’ to ‘she’s on the brink of death.’ ”
“I don’t either,” the doc admitted. “Excuse me. I need to study the labs again, compare them to new labs. I’ll keep you posted.”
After the doctor and most of the staff left, Keeley’s heart rate and blood pressure moderately stabilized, Boone slipped into the room. He went to her side and took her hand, cringing at the tubing that snaked down her throat and the thinner tubes anchored into the top of her hand.
“Keeley,” he whispered, lifting her hand gently to his lips and kissing the spot by her thumb where the IV didn’t interfere. “Please come on, baby. Don’t do this to me. Don’t leave me.” His throat felt raw and thick. “I need you.”