Chapter 22: Bed Nineteen

The ceiling was white, and it was real.

Wes lay still and let it be real for a while.

There was a plastic collar around his neck, a tube taped in the crook of his arm, and a smell of floor cleaner and old coffee.

Nothing hummed in his skull.

"Welcome back," someone said.

He turned his head an inch.

His partner sat in the chair by the bed, with a purple bruise across one cheekbone and a cup of vending machine tea in both hands.

"They took my phone," the partner said. "The police gave it back an hour ago. They've been very polite about it."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. You, on the other hand." The partner looked at the blanket. "Try your feet."

Wes had not looked at his feet since the stairwell.

He did it now, and nothing happened.

He tried again, harder, with his teeth set.

At the end of the bed, under the thin sheet, the toes of his left foot twitched.

It was a tiny movement. It was the best thing he had ever seen.

"Doctor says the swelling's coming down," the partner said, and their voice cracked. "Don't get excited. Get excited a little."

Wes laughed, and then he was crying, and the partner took his hand and held it.

After a while he wiped his face on his sleeve.

"Where is she?"

"Four doors down. They won't let anyone in yet." The partner stood up. "But a nurse says that if you ask nicely, she might break a rule."

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