by Sean Platt
“Hey, Ms. Hughes,” a girl’s voice cut through the chaos in her head, pulling Sarah from her train of thought, and moving her eyes from Ben Johnson’s quiz to the eyes of Melody Quinn, one of her best students. Early, as usual.
“Hi, Melody,” Sarah said.” How are you this morning?”
“Great!” Melody beamed, chipper as always. Sarah suspected that beneath Melody’s happy exterior, lurked the restless soul of a very sad girl.
Or maybe you’re just projecting, Sarah.
Yeah, maybe.
Melody sat in the front row, and was quickly followed by a steady stream of incoming students until the first bell brayed against the soft sea of morning chatters. Of course, not all her students were there. But Sarah was lax. As long as everyone was sitting within a minute or two of the bell, she paid no mind to a few tardies. Some kids had to defy authority a bit, bend the rules to thicken their teenage blood — just like Cassidy. As long as it didn’t distract them from their best work, Sarah pretended not to notice.
Sarah took attendance as the final few students took their seats. Two kids either absent, or especially tardy.
“Today, class,” Sarah moved her eyes from the roll sheet to her students, “we will be writing to a prompt. I want you to choose one of the 10 prompts on this sheet.” Sarah held a stack of papers in the air, then stood from her desk and stepped in front of the class.
“I’d like to see at least five hundred words from everyone. And please,” she turned to Frank, “no more than a thousand, okay?”
Frank, along with a handful of other students, laughed. Frank was the class’s resident future scribe, who often turned essays into novellas which soared past boring into “impossible to care.” He loved the spotlight, reading his lengthy prose, and even his nickname, “tree murderer.”
“Okay, Miss Hughes … I’ll try.”
“That’s all we can ask, Frank.” Sarah smiled as she handed a stack of papers to the student sitting in the first desk of each row.
“Please pass these back,” she said.
Sarah sat back at her desk, sneaking a sip of Diet Pepsi as the class fell silent, rolling pens across papers. The morning was 10 minutes old when Frank was already turning his paper to the other side.
Sarah’s classroom door burst open.
Half the room looked up in unison as Mr. Heller, the teacher next door, ambled into class, clutching his briefcase close to his chest and gazing around the room as though he was stepping from a bus in an unfamiliar city.
Something was off, and that was putting it mildly.
Heller’s hair was a mess, his shirt wrinkled and untucked. His eyes were bloodshot, as if he’d been up all night working, crying, or as unlikely as it might be, getting plastered. More than anything, he looked confused, like he didn’t know which classroom he’d stumbled into.
“Hello, Mr. Heller,” Sarah said, feeling her earlier unease make a return visit.
Heller looked up, as if suddenly realizing his error. An uneasy smile claimed his mouth. He cleared his throat, said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” then left, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Well, that was bizarre.
“Want me to close the door, Miss Hughes?” Jeremy Whitburn asked.
“Yes, please.”
Sarah wondered if she should go and check on Mr. Heller, or maybe call the office and have someone else check on him. He was likely sick and up all night, maybe with his baby. There was a bug going around, which explained the sudden abundance of absences, coming from both students and teachers.
Mr. Heller was one of the most devoted teachers Sarah knew — he never missed a day of school. It definitely fit his character, coming to school even when he should have been in bed with a bucket of soup. Just as she was ready to dismiss Mr. Heller’s odd entry into her classroom as nothing more than sickness, the odd feeling sloshed again in her stomach, adding acid to its insistence.
Something wasn’t right.
You’re going to die today.
Sarah was rarely superstitious, yet she couldn’t shake the growing certainty that there was meat on the bones of her feeling.
She had to do something, since doing nothing felt altogether wrong.
Sarah stood from her desk, went to the corner, then picked up the phone and called Nancy in the dean’s office.
“It’s Miss Hughes,” Sarah whispered into the phone, low enough so her students would strain to hear nothing. “I think someone should check on Mr. Heller.”
“What’s wrong?” Nancy asked, her voice concerned.
“I don’t . . .”
The unmistakable — and unforgettable — thunder of gunshots crashed through the walls.
What the . . .?
“Oh God, someone is shooting!” Sarah said into the phone, loud enough for every ear in class to hear it. Then, even louder, “I think Mr. Heller has a gun!”
“What?” Nancy said as Sarah’s students started to scream, scatter, and run toward the door.
More shots, then a sharp pain split through the center of Sarah’s chest as her body slammed against the wall.
She looked down, stunned to see the small sea of crimson quickly spreading to ocean across the front of her aqua blue blouse.
Oh God.
I’m going to die today.
As Sarah’s world blurred at its edges, she thought of Emma sitting in her classroom.
Emma and her little crush.
Oh God, please keep her safe . . .
Sarah’s lids fell closed.
Everything went black.
* * * *
CHAPTER 2 — Brock Houser
Hamilton Island, Washington
Tuesday afternoon
September 12
Brock’s brain was mostly fog as he blinked his eyes and tried to gain his bearings.
He had no idea where he was, but there was a small girl smiling at him.
She looked immediately familiar, though it took Brock a full minute to realize it was the same girl he had found in the woods. Her name escaped him.
Belle? Bella? Ella?
“He’s awake!” the girl shouted, running to his bedside.
Where am I?
What happened?
The girl returned moments later, carrying with her the welcome sight of his good friend Jon.
“Jesus, you look like hell,” Jon said, smiling.
Houser was about to jokingly tell Jon to fuck off, but remembered the little girl . . . Emma, that’s her name! . . . standing at Jon’s side. “Nice to see you, too,” he said. “What happened? Where am I?”
His upper body — his ribs, his head, his left shoulder — all ached as if he’d taken a roll in a giant dryer with bags of rocks.
“You’re at Conway Medical Center,” Jon’s mouth twitched. “And you’ve been in a car accident.”
“A car accident? I don’t remember . . . ” Houser trailed off, losing his train of thought for a moment as he tried to think back to the last thing he could remember. Everything was a confusing haze.
“Yeah,” Jon nodded. “A couple out hiking found you in your car. You apparently drove off the road and down a steep incline before crashing into a tree, hard. The couple called for help.”
“Jesus, I don’t remember any of that,” Houser said, rubbing his temples, frustrated.
“What do you remember?”
Houser had to think for a moment, sorting through flashes of memory.
“I remember us talking at the bar. And you drinking enough to knock most men out cold for a week. Fu . . . freaking irony that I’m the one who crashed into a tree.” He half-smiled at Jon, then said, “I remember going to see Mrs. . . . um . . . Mrs. Heller.”
Houser wanted to continue, but that’s when things got fuzzy again. He couldn’t even be certain if he’d made it to Heller’s house or not.
“How long have I been here?”
“Three days. It’s Tuesday night. You were in bad shape, a fair bit of internal bleeding. And . . .”
Jon turned to Cassidy, who had just entered the room and was standing close behind him. He winked as he said, “Can you and Emma get me something to eat?”
“Sure thing,” she said. “Come on, Emma. Let’s go see if we can find something yummy.”
Emma pulled Cassidy from the room, leaving Houser alone with Jon.
“What is it, man?” Houser said, searching Jon’s face for some sign of good news. There wasn’t any.
Jon said, “They couldn’t save your leg.”
“What?” Houser said, confused and trying to sit, but trying too fast. His body was stiff, aching, and entirely uncooperative.
Jon helped him, pushing him up against the pillows then peeling the sheet and blanket back from to reveal a bandaged stump, ending at Houser’s right knee.
Houser stared down in disbelief.
Oh Jesus. My leg.
He reached down and touched the bandaged stump.
“I can’t feel anything,” he said.
Jon’s eyes were heavy. “I’m sure that’s just temporary, man.”
“How . . . how did this happen?”
“Like I said, you were hurt pretty badly. They weren’t even sure you were gonna make it.”
The door opened and a young man in a blue shirt and yellow tie entered the room. He was tall and handsome, with the trademark swagger Houser immediately identified as belonging to a surgeon.
“This is Dr. Mark Thompson,” Jon said.
“Hello, Mr. Houser,” Thompson smiled, and extended his hand.
Houser shook his hand.
“I’m the surgeon who operated on you, and I’m here to answer any questions you have. First off, how are you feeling?”
“Groggy. And I can’t remember a thing about what happened.”
“That’s normal.” Thompson looked at his clipboard, then back at Houser. “How about your pain? On a level of one to 10 with 10 being the worst pain of your life. How are you feeling?”
“I dunno, a five?”
“OK,” Thompson nodded. “We have a morphine drip going into you every hour. If you need more, don’t be shy. Just press the button on the side of your bed and it will be given to you. If the button’s not working, press this one here to call for a nurse.” Thompson gestured toward a second button on a console on the bed rail to his left.
“What happened to me, Doc?”
Thompson went over the details, much as Jon had, now sprinkled with a handful of medical terms, many Houser recognized from his years working insurance cases.
“You’re kind of lucky you lost your leg here,” Thompson said.
“Lucky?” Houser asked. “Funny, I was just thinking the same thing. Oh wait. No, I wasn’t.”
Thompson smiled. “What I mean to say is that Conway Medical is the best place you could have wound up because of our limb replacement technology. We’ll have you up and running within a month.”
“A month?”
“Maybe less if your rehab goes as well as we expect,” Thompson said. “You’re in the best hands possible, I assure you.”
They talked more specifically about his injury, how he might feel phantom limb sensations, and how his amputation allowed for the best possible fit with a prosthetic limb — another ‘lucky break,’ no pun intended.
The information was flying too fast for the mud in Houser’s mind; a bit much for him to swallow all at once.
He nearly died. He lost his leg, and was going to get a prosthetic.
Houser had never been one for self pity. Never one to dwell on his situation for too long, no matter how negative it might be. He lived life always willing to roll with the punches and leap to his feet for a fresh fight and a brand new day.
This was a setback, sure, but he was alive. He’d get through this.
Once Dr. Thompson left the room, Houser sat still, considering what might be coming next down this unexpected turn in his life. A nurse brought him a plastic container with ice water, poured Houser a cup, then sat the foam-insulated cooler on the bedside table.
Houser took a long sip of the best tasting water of his life.
He wanted, oddly enough, to go back to sleep. But at the same time, he wanted to know everything he needed to know. Wanted to know what was next.
“You okay?” Jon asked.
“Yeah,” Houser said. “I hope to hell my insurance covers this shit.”
“Relax, it’s covered,” Jon said.
“What? No. I can’t have you paying for this. It’s gonna be crazy expensive.”
“No, not really.” Jon shook his head. “One of the only good things I can say about my family is that they take care of the people on the island extremely well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Conway Industries not only owns the hospital, they also pay for most, if not all, of the residents’ health care costs.”
“That’s crazy. How the hell do they do that?”
“By making a shit ton of money. They have a lot of employees here. And those who don’t work for them, work for someone who services their employees, so it’s in their interest to keep the island healthy. They’ve been doing it for decades. Wellness programs, free medical treatment, and free and reduced medicine. I’m surprised you never saw anything on the news. Conway Industries was being used by proponents for and opponents of socialized medicine in the last election.”
“For and against?”
“Yeah, you know how politics can twist anything to serve any side. Anyway, I talked to Warren and he offered to cover all of the costs related to your surgery and rehab. I’m not sure if he did it to be nice, to try to smooth things over between him and me after our fight, which I’ll tell you about later, or for some positive press, since you’re the investigator who found Emma. I’d guess a blend of the last two, but in any event, you’re set.”
“Set,” Houser said, settling into his new reality. He finished his cup of water then set it on the bedside table.
“I’m so sorry,” Jon said. “This never would’ve happened if you hadn’t come here to help me out.”
“You’re right,” Houser said, in mock sincerity. “So I’d better get a costarring role in your next movie. And not one of those shitty artistic movies, either. I want to be in a fucking blockbuster, with points and everything.”
“Points? Well, look who’s dropping Hollywood lingo like some kind of player.”
“Believe it or not, I actually listen when you’re drunk and rambling.”
The door opened and Cassidy’s face surfaced through the slit, with Emma’s a foot and a half or so beneath. “Is it okay to come in?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Houser nodded.
Cassidy handed Jon a bag of pretzels as Emma approached Houser’s bed, her hands behind her back and a huge smile on her face.
“Guess what I’ve got,” Emma said.
“I dunno,” he said, playing along. “A giraffe?”
Emma laughed, scrunching her nose and squinting her eyes. “Noooo,” she said.
“Um, if it’s not a giraffe, I don’t know. Can I have a hint?”
“He’s a friend of yours,” she said, her smile giant.
Houser saw a glimpse of his teddy bear as the girl twisted back and forth waiting for him to guess.
“Um, is it Billy Wagner?”
“Who’s Billy Wagner?” she said, the confusion on her face pushing Brock into a laugh. The laughter hurt his ribs. He winced and pressed the button on the arm of his bed to get more drugs.
“Billy’s a friend of mine back home. Though I’m not sure how he’d fit behind you since he’s seven foot nine.”
“Seven foot nine?! No, he’s not!”
“OK, maybe he’s a bit shorter than that. But he’s still a lot taller than you. So, if it’s not Billy, and it’s not Jon, I’m all out of friends.”
“You only have two friends?” Emma asked, surprised again.
Houser smiled
, “Two friends I can count on, anyway. Well, there’s one other.”
“Yeah? Who is it?” she asked, her smile growing bigger.
“Well, he’s short. Like super short. Even shorter than you.”
Emma stuck out her bottom lip at the short crack.
“And, let’s see . . . He’s brown, and furry, and he eats my cookies all the time.”
“Ta-da!” she said, thrusting her hand forward to display Ted D. Bear.
Houser took his bear, still wearing both his furry legs, despite being in a car accident with him. “How did you find him?”
Jon answered, “The cops on the scene collected your stuff. I asked them if I could get the bear to bring you in the hospital. I’d hate for the big man to be without his teddy.”
“Hey,” Houser warned, “you watch it. Or you’re gonna fall to number two, behind Ted on my best friend list.”
Jon laughed and they all made small talk while Houser couldn't help but notice the shift between Cassidy and Jon. Like animals, they circled one another differently, almost like they’d changed their scent. They seemed much closer then they had the other day. As if they’d . . .
Oh Jon, you slept with her? What the hell are you doing?
Houser set the topic on his mind’s front burner so he could discuss it with Jon the next time they were alone. And when his head wasn’t throbbing. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep his eyes open.
“Thank you for my bear,” he said to Emma. “I appreciate it.”
Houser tucked the bear next to the bed rail and then said, “I hope you all don’t mind, but I’m tired.”
“No problem, buddy,” Jon said. “We’ve gotta get something to eat, anyway. These pretzels only made me hungrier.”
He thanked everyone for coming, then waited for their collective goodbyes and promises to return soon.