Chapter 2

Sara has never liked hospitals,but today she hates them.

The sickly green walls and the smell of bleach make the waiting feel endless. She's been there for over three hours now, alternating between sitting in the stiff chairs and pacing the length of the waiting room. David's mother sits with her, hands shaking and pale as she continues to wring them in her lap. Sara wishes her presence soothed her fear, but the truth is she only amplifies it. It's not that they dislike each other, but there has always been a quietness to Mrs. Mclintock that sets her on edge. Sara suspects it has more to do with her own anxiety than the woman herself.

"What's taking them so long?" Sara mutters, biting her thumbnail and staring at the emergency room doors. "Why haven't they come back yet?" The last update they had told them little to nothing: internal bleeding, broken ribs, pierced lung, possible spine trauma… They said nothing about the outlook, only that they were still making every effort to stabilize him. Sara hates that word almost as much as the hospital. ‘Stabilize' sounds too much like his life is hanging in the balance.

Mrs. Mclintock doesn't answer right away. Her dark blue eyes dart to the clock, her hands moving in time with the second hand. "It's ok," she says, but the tremor in her small voice betrays her. "He'll be fine."

Sara wishes she could find comfort in the older woman's fragile optimism, but it only makes her stomach twist. Nausea rises, hot and acidic, in her throat.

She needs to get out of there—she's suffocating on anxiety and bleach fumes. "I'm," she swallows thickly, trying to smooth the crack in her voice. She"s not very successful. "I'm going to get some air."

Mrs. Mclintock nods, her eyes vacantly staring at the door separating the ER from the waiting room. With her pearls and perfectly coiffed hair, her stillness, she wouldn't look entirely out of place in a Rockwell painting. Sara's not entirely convinced she fully heard her, but she's too desperate for space to bother repeating herself.

The automatic doors slide open, the rush of hot, humid air a stark contrast to the air-conditioned room at her back.

Sara takes a deep breath. Another. Another.

Each one feels less satisfying than the last, more water than air, and she feels herself falling apart—every carefully stitched seam unraveling faster than she can patch it. She leans against the wall, brick scraping painfully against her shoulder blades as she sinks to the ground, drawing her knees up to her chest. Her fingers tangle in her hair, the heels of her hands pressing against her temples as she drags air into her lungs between smothered, hiccuped sobs.

She tries to calm her heart—tells herself there's still hope—but between every weak self assurance is another stab of doubt. She thinks of her mother's red sedan, the bitter words her father loves to utter between bottles.

They all leave you eventually.

But this is different—she knows it's different. Because David loves her and would never want to leave. David is made of wild smiles and romantic gestures; candies on her pillow, love notes in her fridge. Surprise camping trips in the mountains and dances in the living room. Her hand, always finding its way into his, fingers linked and the warmth of his lips pressed against the backs of her knuckles.

Her breathing slows, but the tears won't stop. They fall, one after another, the pain deepening with each and every memory because it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he wants to go or if he's taken against his will, because the result is the same.

"Who are they to you?"

Sara starts, head snapping up at the sound of his voice—deep and melodic, but clipped with an accent she's unfamiliar with. She had been certain she was alone, but she must have overlooked him. Or, maybe, she's just been out here longer than she realized.

He's tall; a shadow of black and charcoal finery her small town only ever sees at weddings and stage plays. Full suit, high collar—a glint of a gold chain peeking between the folds of his coat. Sara wonders how he's not sweating in the summer heat.

She sniffs, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of her hand. "I—" Her voice is a rock slide, jarring and rough. She clears her throat. Tries again. "I'm sorry, what?"

His hands slip into his pockets, gaze unnervingly intense. "The person you're crying for. Who are they to you?"

Sara stills, pulse jumping in her throat. A quick glance proves they are the only ones around, but she consoles herself with the knowledge that she's close enough to the Emergency entrance that someone would hear her if she screamed. "How—" She shakes her head. Of course he knows; why else would she be crying in front of the ER? "My boyfriend."

"Interesting," he murmurs, more curious than empathetic. His eyes, dark in the dim light, flick to her left hand. "I would have expected more."

His reaction is off. The way he looks at her… as if he's measuring her up instead of offering sympathy, sends a warning trill up her spine. Sara stands, brick against her back and adrenaline buzzing under her skin. Something isn't right, and she doesn't plan on staying long enough to figure out what. "Look, I'm just going to go back inside."

She's already halfway to the double glass doors when he speaks, stopping her in her tracks. "I can save him."

In her chest, her heart stutters painfully—her body turning back to him numbly. "What?"

He rolls his eyes; the picture of annoyance. "Honestly, do you plan to make me repeat everything? I said I can save him."

Sara scoffs, shaking her head. "How?"

"A life for a soul. A soul for a life," he croons; invitation coated in temptation. "It's simple, really."

Right. She wants to kick herself for even asking. "You're crazy. What, did you escape the mental ward?"

He cocks his head, an amused smile curling the corners of his mouth. "Is that a no, then?"

"Yeah... think I'm going to pass." Sara looks around, the beginnings of trepidation trailing up her spine. There's no one else in sight, but she feels like there should be. "Seriously, is someone looking for you?"

He shrugs, completely unconcerned. "Very well, I'll leave dear David to his own devices, then. Ta." He turns, ready to leave. Sara doesn't let him.

"Wait!" In her chest, her heart beats so fast it feels like the screaming, violent hum of cicada wings. In his eyes, she sees a nauseating combination of amusement and knowing. "How did you—I never told you his name."

"Unless you fancy a man with denture cream, it was fairly easy to guess." His arms cross over his chest, finger tapping against his elbow and eyes reflecting the hospital entrance's cold, fluorescent lighting. "Terribly unfortunate—to be named David, of all things. What with the whole, getting done in by a bull." He must take her numbness as misunderstanding, because the sigh he gives is steeped in disappointment. "David and Goliath? David, the little man who beats the big bad giant? You must see the irony, surely."

It should be impossible for him to know. Unless... "What. Do you work in the back office or something? Because whatever your game is—"

"I do, in fact, have other places I'd like to be other than this corn themed hellhole," he drawls. "So, I would be most appreciative if you could make up your bloody mind."

God, this guy really was crazy. "Whatever. If I say yes, will you leave me alone?"

The corner of his mouth curls, crooked. "For the time being."

The sound of sirens in the distance has her glancing back towards the highway. She can just see the flicker of red cresting over the sea of white headlights. "Fine. It's a deal. Now will—"

He's gone.

Baffled, she searches, but the parking lot is empty and there's no way he could have made it to the door in the time she glanced away. He just couldn't have. It's impossible. How—

"Sara!" Mrs. Mclintock yells for her from the waiting room entrance, voice as watery as the tears streaming down her face. Sara's stomach drops, fearing the worst, but the older woman pulls her into a hug so fierce, she can feel her ribs groaning under the pressure. "He's going to be ok. The doctor said he's going to be ok."

Sara's knees go weak, and she's suddenly grateful for the strength of the other woman's hold.

The doctor doesn't letanyone back to see him for another hour. The waiting is still torturous, but the weight on her chest has loosened—a necklace instead of a noose. When she finally enters David's room, sees the tangle of IVs and wires, she has to grip the doorframe to keep herself upright.

He's pale. So, so pale. The small mole on the ridge of his cheek stands out like an ink spot on paper, and with all the bandages and tubes, he looks almost nothing like himself. She hates that his eyes are closed—that if it weren't for the insistent beeping of the monitor, she would assume his heart wasn't beating. Suddenly, she's glad the doctor made them wait until they removed the intubation tube. At least they can see his face.

Mrs. Mclintock chokes on a sob, kneeling at the bedside and grasping his hand. "Oh, my baby boy."

Numbly, Sara moves to his other side. She brushes the bangs from his face, breath hitching as she struggles to hold back a fresh wave of tears. When she laces their fingers, his skin is too cold to feel familiar.

David stirs, groaning. His eyes flutter open, voice slurring as he focuses on his mother's face. "Mom?"

Mrs. Mclintock nods, bringing their clasped hands to her cheek. "It's me, son. It's me. You were in an accident, but I'm here, honey. Sara, too."

"Sara?" He frowns, his head turning towards her. When he looks at her, his eyes are the exact shade of blue she fell in love with, but there's something unfamiliar in his gaze. Something off. His mouth twists, but it's not a smile—it's a sneer. "Who the hell are you?"