“No. Why?”
“There were things that we found during your operation that were a touch concerning.”
“Such as?”
“You have no fingerprints, for one. They were clearly burned off at some point. And several of your molars have been filed down. Not enough to affect your chew pattern, but just enough to separate you from your dental records.” He paused to let me process the implications of that. Perhaps my full name was just Shady Shaderton. “You’ve also had several surgeries that I can see. Probably more that I can’t. Even your Achilles’ heels are reinforced. The tendons were replaced with foreign material.”
“Which means what, exactly?” I furrowed my brow. “I had black-market surgery or something?”
“Looks like.”
Holy shit, I was kidding. Realizing he was looking at me expectantly, I spread my hands. “If I knew, I’d tell you. Maybe I’m like one of those people on the Discovery Channel who have unusual addictions. You know, like the ones that genetically modify their body with vampire teeth and cat eyes and shit. Maybe my freaky addiction is kangaroo cosplay.”
He looked like he was fighting a smile. “Maybe.”
I was ready to staunchly defend my weird brethren. “We’re not harming anyone.”
This time a little chuckle broke free. “I would have to agree. But… some official people have questions for you.”
I stared at him for a few moments as I connected those dots. “The kind of people who cuffed me to this bed?”
“Pretty much.”
“Look, I don’t have any answers for them, Doc. Or you. And just where the fuck is Gray?”
“Dr. Laurie is—”
“Otherwise occupied. Got it,” I said dryly. They probably hadn’t even told him that I was here. He would’ve at least told them my name, even if he didn’t seem to give a fuck about me anymore. “You tell Dr. Laurie to get his ass down here right now.”
“Calm down.”
“I don’t need to fucking calm down,” I said about a thousand decibels louder than necessary, and he flinched back. I was immediately sorry—he’d been nothing but kind to me. But shit, didn’t Dr. Bad News know the adage about a spoonful of sugar? I needed about a cup of simple syrup, neat, to get all this information down my throat.
“I’m sorry about this, but we need to keep you calm,” Dr. Michaels said.
He waved at someone behind him, and Brenda came in, giving me the calm “I’m about to fuck you up” look that would be right at home on Kathy Bates from Misery. She pushed me flat on the bed with no effort at all and pulled the cap off the syringe.
I tried to sit up, but she flattened me easily. Shit. “Isn’t bodybuilding on the weekends considered moonlighting?”
She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. I didn’t know her very well, but I felt it was safe to assume she had a low tolerance for shit in general. “This will only pinch for a second.”
I jerked up, and she pushed me flat again. “I have kangaroo ankles,” I warned her.
Whatever she injected me with was cool as it ran through my veins, and I immediately felt my body start to relax against my will, one extremity at a time. “Hey.” Dr. Michaels’s face swam into my vision as I sagged into the bed. “Don’t get discouraged. We’re all here to help you, okay?”
I looked into those earnest brown eyes and thought maybe…maybe things would be okay. I succumbed to the darkness yet again, wondering where the hell Gray was. And why he didn’t care about me anymore.
3
I blinked blearily as I struggled out of the strong embrace of manufactured sleep. I wondered when I’d last slept naturally, not in fits and starts provided by a haze of drugs. At least the ambient noises of the hospital were becoming less jarring.
I could hear the chatter of nurses down at the nurses’ station and the rolling of a cart down the hall accompanied by the squeak of rubber soles on the linoleum. I was even getting used to the TV in the room directly across the hallway, which the occupant always kept on some news program.
It took me a few moments to realize that some of the chatter wasn’t coming from the nurses’ station. Two people were embroiled in a hushed conversation right outside my door. I wished they would either speak up so I could get the gossipy scoop or go away so I could ponder my fucked-up existence in peace.
Hell, while I was wishing for things, I wished someone would close my fucking door. I always reminded the last person out of the room, but the next person would forget or neglect to ask. “Open” was the default in this place. And just who the hell would want to leave their door open with all this bloody noise? Okay, so maybe I wasn’t getting used to the hospital after all.
The rolling cart finally passed, and the murmur of voices became a little clearer. The word “Detective” perked me up considerably. Finally. Someone who could get these freaking cuffs off my wrist. Another thought occurred to me, and I frowned. Maybe she was the one that had put them on. I strained to hear.
“…wish we could tell you more about his condition, but right now, we’re not sure.” One of those voices sounded kind of like the nurse from earlier, Brenda, who’d jabbed me with the needle full of sedatives. The one with the serial killer stare and scrub top covered in dancing puppies.
“Dr. Michaels seems to think he’s developed amnesia because of his head trauma,” she went on. “He’s been awake, though. He’s complained of a little double vision and some headaches, but that’s to be expected. He’s capable of maintaining a conversation. He doesn’t have any real answers for us, but he seems to understand the questions.”
“Is it permanent?” the detective asked. She sounded like she gave zero fucks but had to ask anyway.
“We don’t know at the moment. We just have to monitor him and keep him calm.”
“Do you know his name?” Detective Zero Fucks asked.
“Yet another thing we don’t know,” Brenda said with a sigh. “We’ve been calling him Joe. That’s my cat’s name.”
Fucking fantastic. I guess I should have been glad her cat’s name wasn’t Puss-in-Boots.
“Any identifying characteristics?”
“He has several tattoos. An infinity symbol on his thigh. The letter P on the back of his neck. A brand of an ant on his left wrist.”
“Anything else?” The detective asked briskly.
“He has the tattoo Maxim behind his ear.” I could almost hear Brenda’s shrug. “It could be his name, but he doesn’t seem to care for it.”
“It could also be the name of a friend, a lover, a dead damn dog… hell, maybe he just loves the magazine.” The detective’s irritation was almost palpable. “I’ll look into it. Anything else I should know before I go in there?”
Yes, there sure as fuck is, I thought snappishly. I’m irritable, I want this catheter out of me, and I want my afternoon turkey sandwich. I also have kangaroo ankles, and I’m not afraid to use ’em.
“His overall health is good. He has all of his teeth, and his eyes are clear. He looks well-cared for, so I doubt he was homeless. Poor thing.” Brenda clucked her tongue as if she gave two shits before she continued. “His CT scan was clear, and he’s been tested for symptoms of dementia, intoxication, neurological disease…all negative.”