Chapter 3

Chapter

Three

Dr. Lucas Hamilton

I wake in agony.

Swelling makes narrow, painful slits of my eyes, but I'm not sure I want to see anyway. Carefully, I turn my head and spot a blurry glass of water on what looks like a white enamel nightstand.

"Mm…." I want that water more I have ever wanted anything.

Someone shifts in a chair beside my bed. "Hello, stranger. Are you coming around at last?"

I don't know who the voice belongs to, but he slips his arm behind my shoulders and holds the straw to my lips. I love him. The water is glorious too. I'm so thirsty, I want to gulp and gulp and gulp, but my savior moves the glass away. Now I want to cry.

"Little sips," he instructs quietly before giving me more. "That's it. You can have more water in slow sips."

I drink for a bit, but it's exhausting. I hear him set the glass down on a metal nightstand. I have no clue where I am. The man who gave me water takes my wrist and holds it.

I pull my arm away. "‘M fine. All good. More water, please."

"Our hobo appears to be an optimist." A woman's New England accent cracks the silence around us.

"He's not a hobo, Rose. Look at these hands." My savior turns my palm up and lightly strokes the skin with cool fingers. "No hobo has hands like this."

"I prefer to stay right here, thank you." She replies primly.

Where the hell am I? I'm lying in what feels like an uncomfortable camping cot. It's low to the ground. It smells of disinfectant and industrial soap, but doesn't look like a hospital. Is someone about to harvest my kidneys? I don't feel an incision, yet. I do feel an uncomfortable IV. It's dripping from a glass bottle. What the hell?

"Now, then." The doctor leans over me. He's glorious to look at. He doesn't look like some black-market organ dealer. He looks like someone I'd have hooked up with BS—before Sophie. "Tell me about yourself. Do you remember what happened?"

Things are blurry, but the bluest of blue eyes watch me from a fascinating, aristocratic face. His hair and beard are silver-threaded, and they gleam, even in the low light. If it sounds like I'm describing Santa Claus, nothing could be farther from the truth. He's waiting for an answer. He looks like a gilded age robber baron.

What happened? "I…I'm not sure."

"Now, now, young man." This man is my ultimate Kryptonite—a level 10 silver fox with distant eyes and a melancholy twist to his lips. He dons a stethoscope and vintage reflector to examine me. I let my aching head fall to the pillow. He gently lifts my right eyelid and beams light into my pupil. "Surely you can tell me how you came to be in this condition."

I am so confused right now.

Am I dreaming? Did I wind up the night with medical cosplay? Though I've tried kink once or twice, I can't imagine doing anything like this. He lifts the other eyelid.

Ow . My head is killing me.

"My safe word is blasphemer ," I give a fainthearted huff of laughter. "Because it's so fun to say. Like, What ho, blasphemer!"

His hands draw away. "Beg pardon?"

I'm dizzy. The black spots at the edge of my vision coalesce in the center. Like an old school television with tubes, I wink out. Snap. Nothing but blackness.

I wake up alone.

I try to piece together everything that happened the day before. I remember I was in surgery for most of the day. That reminds me: I need to call the ICU and the boy's primary. I need to check on his condition because it was touch and go. He must be a fighter, or he'd never have made it to the OR. I hope he stays with us. I hate to lose.

"I need my phone." I roll to my side, which is a mistake. My head spins. I hear hurried footsteps. The drag of a chair.

"You're back with us. I was a bit worried." It's the silver fox. His gentle voice coats my nerves like hot wax. "I suggest you stay put for a while. Whoever worked you over, they took the job seriously."

"How did I get here?" The room could be a movie set. It's straight out of a Hemmingway novel, complete with nurses who wear starched hats, long white dresses, and spotless aprons. "What is this?"

"You're in my new infirmary." He takes me by the wrist again. "The carnival people brought you here in the back of a truck."

Carnival people? The more I try to make sense of the doctor's words, the less I understand. The surgery took a long time. I would have been exhausted. I probably picked up something to eat and then headed home. What did I get this time? Mexican? No. Kebabs because I had to get something plant based for?—

"Sophie! Where's Sophie?" I sit up so suddenly, I vomit over the side of the bed. Instant humiliation. My eyes water and my throat burns. My stomach muscles cramp with effort. The silver fox is staring at me. I want to crawl into a hole and die. Instead, I flop back onto the pillow. "Oh my God. I'm sorry."

"That'll be your concussion." He hands me a cloth handkerchief. I use it to wipe my mouth while he gets a mop and bucket. "No one came in with you."

A petit nurse says, "Doctor, I can take care of that."

"I've got it, Marie." He mops up my puke as if he does it every day. "See if you can round up something simple for our patient. Broth, maybe?"

"I am so sorry." Who puts wood floors in a sickroom? "If I've ruined your floor, you need to let me know. I'll pay to have it sanded and refinished or…whatever."

"I hope they're not that easy to ruin." Silver hair falls over one blue eye. "Sick people vomit a lot."

"Still.…" Wait. I need to make a call. I don't know if Sophie got home safely. "Phone. Please, I need my phone."

"Your phone?" He stops what he's doing to frown at me.

"My phone. Where is it?" I feel around in the linens and check the nightstand, but it's not there. "Where are my clothes? It must still be in my jacket pocket."

"You didn't have a jacket when they brought you in. There was nothing in your pockets." He sets the mop and bucket aside, and a different nurse whisks them away. "What's your name?"

"Lucas Hamilton. Doctor Lucas Hamilton. Yours?" Even with slits for eyes, I can see his skepticism. I probably don't look much like a doctor right now.

"Dr. Sumner Delano. Pleasure to meet you." He holds out his hand. Contact with his skin distracts me for a few seconds. His hand is supple, soft, and cool to the touch. He has long, slender fingers. His nails are trimmed and buffed. He's mature, but not old. His face is barely lined. I've known men who gray early. The vain ones dye their hair because it makes them seem older than their years.

This man's graying hair and the way he calls me "son" is camouflage.

For reasons of his own, Dr. Sumner Delano is playing a perpetual game of six truths and a lie.

Meanwhile, I need to get home. "My phone must be there. Can you hand me my clothes? I need to make a call."

"To Sophie?" He hands me my shirt and trousers.

"My jacket is gone for real?"

"That's all you came to us with."

I feel around the fabric and find nothing. Not my phone, or wallet, or keys. Not even my breath mints, which I need desperately right now.

He asks, "Is Sophie your wife? We can get word to her, if?—"

"She's my daughter, and she's home alone. She'll worry." Memories are coming back like movie teasers. Did she go somewhere with friends? We've been squabbling like two betta fish in a small bowl. Did she sneak out? I remember… She did! I wince. "Sophie won't worry. About me, I mean. She'll assume I had to work, but I need to know if she's safe."

"Her mother's not in the picture, I take it?" The doctor's brows are like dove wings--arched and expressive and lovely. My god. I must have hit my head really, really hard.

"No." Though maybe a picture would help. I barely remember what the woman looks like. Maybe she looks like Sophie?

His face falls. "I'm sorry for your loss."

"What? No." I clarify quickly. "Sophie's mother was never in the picture. I didn't know about Sophie until summer last year. When her mother remarried, she sent Sophie to live with me."

"That's a very cosmopolitan arrangement. I take it there was a divorce. Could that have anything to do with your current situation?"

I rack my brain to remember how I could have lost every single thing I was carrying. Then I remember: Fun House. Being thrown from the emergency exit and rolling down that hill.

"Was I robbed? I must have been robbed. Shit. I'm lucky to be alive.

"What else is missing?" He's still looking at me as though he's not sure I'm sane.

"My keys, phone, and wallet are gone."

"And your socks." The good doctor hides a smile. "That's mysterious right there. Why wouldn't thieves take your shoes too?"

I don't know how to answer that. No one wears socks with loafers. I try a different line of inquiry. "What did the carnival people say happened to me when they brought me here?"

"They said they found you lying on the side of the road. Since I'm the only doctor left within miles—present company excepted—they brought you here."

The only doctor? That doesn't make sense.

"What about the hospital where I work? Dr. Lucas Hamilton. Google me. I'm a surgeon. I was with Keck until about six months ago. Ask anyone at Santa Fe Medical or UNM. Dr. Lucas Hamilton. Head of?—"

"I found broth." The taller nurse comes back with a bowl and a spoon.

"Explaining myself is exhausting." I feel like a limp rag.

"Don't you worry." Delano lets his shy smile show this time. "We'll find out where you belong and get you back there in no time."

Fear grips me. I'm stranded here without my things. There's no way to get in touch with Sophie. I have no idea where I am, and Delano is acting like everything's fine.

"Are you humoring me? What's going on here? Is this a reality show?"