“A few days?” Cassidy shouted, sitting upright.
Bruce put up his hands. “You can’t just jump up and walk out of here, not yet.” He nodded at the machinery. “It’s not safe. Your body is still metabolizing the drug. You might need more medicine. Your hand needs a cast.”
At this, she looked at her left hand, which was wrapped in a giant bandage. She could see the purple tips of her middle and ring finger poking out. “Is it broken?” she asked.
Bruce nodded. “Two metatarsals. It’ll heal. But you’ll have to lay off typing for a while.” He smiled at his joke, but it faded again when he saw her reaction. She appreciated his attempts to make her feel better, but it was like she’d forgotten how to show it. “My ring!” she said in a panic.
Bruce grimaced. “They had to cut it off,” he said.
Cassidy gasped. A new wave of despair crashed over her. Pete’s ring, the one he had created for her to wear for the rest of her life.
“It was that or lose your finger.” He sighed. “I’m sorry.”
Cassidy couldn’t look at him. Tears blurred her vision and she wiped them away with her good hand. “Thank you for saving my life,” she said with difficulty.
“You saved mine,” he said softly. “So we’re even.” He was using his teasing voice again, and somehow this downshifted her tension. “I’m going to let you rest,” he said, and rose.
Cassidy realized that she was pushing him away. “When it was happening,” she said. “I saw Pete. He was angry with me for something. He was shouting.”
Bruce stood still. “That was me, Cass,” he said. “You don’t remember what I was yelling?”
Cassidy searched her memories for the answer, but found that her brain didn’t have that ability.
“I was yelling at you to fight, to not give up.”
At this, Cassidy remembered. And she remembered that it had brought her back, had given her the strength to push through the heavy darkness to the light.
“Will I be okay?” she asked him. “I mean, am I . . . ” She knew what addicts went through to get clean. Was she going to have to walk that horrible road?
“You’ll go through withdrawals, which is going to suck, but then you’ll be okay.” He paused. “You’re not an addict.”
Cassidy lay back into the pillows. The news came as a relief, but it was only temporary. A new wave of sadness washed over her.
Bruce moved to the door when she added, “The high, it was . . . incredible.” She looked at him squarely. She wanted to say it aloud. So much of Reeve’s battle had been secret, hidden. She didn’t want any secrets. “I understand now.”
Bruce gave her a puzzled look.
“Why people do it and can’t stop.” She remembered the angry, desperate craving for more of the drug as the rush faded. “It’s awful.”
Bruce nodded. “I’ll tell the doctor that you’re ready for him,” he said, and then stepped from the room.
The next time she woke, her glasses rested on the small table next to her, along with a Styrofoam cup with a straw. Gratefully, she took a long sip and slipped her glasses back on. The room was dark, so it had to be night. The sounds from outside the room were infrequent, though an occasional alarm or muted conversation made its way through the cracks. She thought back to everything that Bruce had told her, but none of it really registered.
Bruce had been working undercover—that she understood. So did that mean that he had used her somehow? When Reeve went missing, it had to have been a problem for him. And what about the night they’d shared under the stars? She had felt a connection to him then—was it to be trusted? He had told her about growing up in Hawaii, about his parents, about surfing the North Shore. Had those stories been made up as part of his cover? These thoughts were too much for her, and her taxed brain set them adrift. She wondered if she would ever truly understand the events that had led her here.
When they were finally ready to release her from the hospital, Cassidy felt much stronger. Her hand no longer throbbed, her lungs didn’t feel raspy, and her brutal headache was mostly gone. She picked through her clothes, selecting the long, cotton skirt she had saved for the flight home, and the only clean shirt she had left, a long sleeve button-down meant to act as a sun shirt. Pete’s ring, sliced by the emergency team, was tucked away in her pack. I guess I have an answer to Héctor’s question now, she thought with bitterness.
After she had signed the paperwork, and that day’s doctor, a woman in her fifties with a serious air, had listed her discharge instructions, Cassidy slipped on her flip-flops and waited for her escort. A middle-aged man arrived, dressed in scrubs, his brown eyes weary. He checked her wristband against his paperwork, and then helped her climb into the wheelchair. The man grabbed her pack, grunting with the weight, and then they were gliding down the glossy corridor. Cassidy did not wave to the nurses or the doctor.
Will you come back? she remembered Mel asking. He had sounded hopeful; she had believed that he wanted her to return, had even imagined the two of them sipping coffee and watching the sunrise light up the jungle. No, she thought. I’m never coming back here.
At the curb, a sleek black SUV was waiting for her. A thick-chested Tico exited the passenger side. “Yo, Cassi-dee,” he said in a heavy accent. He pointed to his wide chest. “Alonso.” Cassidy was confused. Had the hospital called for this deluxe ride? She had requested a taxi. Alonso took her things from the medical assistant, and then stored them in the back. He opened the passenger door and inside, waiting, was Bruce.
The Tico reached for
