“We’re admitting you for observation,” she said. “You’ll be here at least overnight, maybe a couple of days.”
I didn’t argue. I could barely sit up without the room tilting.
She settled me in a room with two beds, though the other one was empty. She adjusted the IV and told me to buzz if I needed anything.
I reached for my phone. My instinct was to call someone from my unit, people who understood the value of keeping things quiet. I texted Chief Master Sergeant Boyd, a mentor and friend, letting him know I was in Charleston Memorial’s military wing.
He replied fast. Need me there?
Not yet, I told him.
The door opened, and I tensed. It wasn’t Natalie, just a hospital tech checking my vitals. He chatted about the weather, took my blood pressure, and left. The quiet settled in again.
My mind wandered back to the last real conversation Natalie and I had a few years ago at a family barbecue. She’d made some dig about how real jobs don’t involve wearing a uniform and living off the government. I’d laughed it off in front of everyone, but later I told her she could keep her opinions to herself.
She didn’t.
A knock broke the memory.
Denise poked her head in. “You’ve got a visitor,” she said, not asking if I wanted one.
Then Natalie walked in like she owned the place. She had on a sundress and sunglasses pushed up into her hair. The first words out of her mouth weren’t Are you okay?
“But I heard you were in a crash.”
“Yeah,” I said.
She looked around the room, taking in the empty second bed, the IV stand, the monitor beeping at my side.
“You’re really milking this, huh?”
I ignored that. “How did you hear?”
“Charleston’s small,” she said, like that explained everything. “So what’s going on with you? I thought you were busy saving the world or whatever you do up in D.C.”
“I’m on leave,” I said.
“Leave for what?”
“Personal reasons.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Personal like money?”
I stared back at her. “No.”
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