Prism - By Rachel Moschell Page 0,85

the impact still caused this swelling. It’s much worse than we thought. His heart can’t keep this up much longer. I’m sorry.”

Wara didn’t even look at the doctor, but her face crumpled as she watched Alejo.

I should leave. Just leave. I don’t have to watch this.

But her heart surged to her throat, vibrating with what she realized was compassion. She clutched the bed sheet with white knuckles. Alejo’s heart rate accelerated further and his back arched.

And then his eyes flew open, leaving Wara absolutely shocked, staring into a sea of hazel. He was sitting, suddenly, gasping and leaning forward onto the pale blue blanket. The monitor’s beeping dove from a constant beep to deep electronic thuds. And stayed that way.

Dr. Ortega had flown to the bedside and was leaning over Alejo’s shoulder, trying to support him. Behind the gold-rimmed glasses, the doctor’s eyes were round and about to pop. “His heart rate’s normal,” he stammered. “Where did it…what happened to the tachycardia?” The nurses had drawn back and were gaping at Alejo sitting up on the bed. And then they jumped. Because Alejo grinned. At Wara.

It was weak and lop-sided, and looked out of place on his pale face. But the smile caused his eyes to spark, and he glued his gaze on Wara, who gawked back at him, knee propped against the side of his bed.

“You!” he croaked. Then coughed and tried another grin. “He told me I wouldn’t remember your name. Doesn’t matter. They’re coming for us. Two of them. And he said we’re just supposed to go, and do whatever they say. Come with me!”

And then the grin faded and Alejo hunched farther over, as if just now feeling the pain traveling down the nerve pathways from his head. “What hospital is this?” he moaned, leaning over onto his knees with head in his hands. “I remember everything. I can’t believe I’m here.”

The nurses rushed towards him, firm hands admonishing the patient to lie back down. Wara forced her mouth to shut and backed up a few feet from the bed. She ripped her gaze away from Alejo towards the doctor, who was still watching wide-eyed and incredulous.

“I can’t believe…I was sure he was…dying.” As if realizing he had just said that out loud, Dr. Ortega snapped his mouth shut and rubbed his temple. “This is really unusual. We’ll have to run some more tests. I’d say we’re not out of the woods yet, after that little speech our patient just made. He’s obviously delirious. It’s to be expected with the brain trauma.”

Delirious. Of course. “They’re coming for us?” That had sounded like a line out of Terminator.

A skinny nurse butted into Wara’s line of sight, cutting off the conversation with the doctor. “Doctor,” she clipped nervously. “The patient he…can’t see.”

Wara blinked, staying where she was as Dr. Ortega moved towards Alejo and tried to check his sight. “You can’t see?” the doctor asked with concern. Alejo was lying still on the rumpled pillow, eyes opened narrowly.

“I can’t see anything,” he answered.

“There you go.” Dr. Ortega turned his head towards Wara. “It’s still the swelling. Considering the loss of sight and that delirious talk, I’m going to have the lab come up and do some more tests right away.”

But he looked right at me. When he woke up, Wara thought, stunned. That grin, half-crazed but out of his mind with delight about something. He knew she was there. And now he couldn’t see.

“It’s late,” the doctor told Wara. “Why don’t you try to get some rest, while we draw some blood for the tests.” Everyone shuffled out into the hallway, leaving Wara alone with Alejo, lying still and pale in the bed. Staring at the ceiling and seeing nothing.

“Get some rest,” the doctor says.

Tomorrow couldn’t come fast enough. Wara needed to escape to Lima.

27

sapphire

GABRIEL SHARA FORCED HIMSELF TO EAT breakfast that morning purely out of habit. His stomach was full of butterflies with razor wings and his hands tingled as he sat at the table near the large picture window in the kitchen.

He was waiting for Manuel, and Manuel was not coming.

Gabriel realized that the hot water in his ceramic mug was getting cold, and he distractedly unscrewed the red plastic lid of the Nescafe jar and scooped a generous heap of instant coffee into the water. He added two tiny spoons of sugar and a stream of cream, stirring it around without thinking. A tightly-sealed bag of crusty marraqueta bread had been delivered this morning and