9.
1471 Words
SUMMER'S POV
Saint Peter's Hospital smelled the way all hospitals smelled - antiseptic and waiting. I pushed through the entrance doors before Kingsley had fully stopped the car. I heard him call my name, heard the door slam behind him, but my legs were already moving and my brain had narrowed to a single corridor, a single name - Clyde
"Excuse me — my brother was brought in, his name is Clyde Walker" The woman at the front desk was already opening her mouth when I felt a hand close around my arm.
"Summer." It was George.
He looked exhausted, his shirt damp at the collar, eyes tight with a worry he was trying to hold steady for my sake. Something about the sight of him made my chest crack open just slightly.
"Where is he?" I grabbed his shirt. "George, where is he?"
"He's okay—"
"Where—"
"He is okay, Summer, I promise you." He covered both my hands with his. "Come on. I'll take you to him."
He led us down a corridor, then another. Kingsley followed a few steps behind. He was quiet. I was aware of him the way you're aware of a wall.
The room was small. One bed, pale curtains, a monitor that beeped in slow, even intervals. And there was Clyde, eyes closed, looking so young. It physically hurt me. An oxygen line ran under his nose. His chest rose and fell.
I pressed my hand over my mouth, trying to hide my tears. He was breathing. He was right there, breathing.
George exhaled beside me. "See? He's—"
"Don't." My voice came out strange. "Don't say it yet."
George stopped talking. Then he turned and looked at me with that expression — the one that meant a lecture was loading, had been loading since the moment I'd ignored his messages, and was approximately three seconds from deploying.
"Summer, I have been calling you for—"
"George." Kingsley's voice was quiet. He placed his hands on George's shoulders to stop him from talking. George blinked and looked at him. Something passed between them, some silent negotiation I wasn't part of, and George closed his mouth.
I looked at Kingsley. He met my eyes briefly, then looked away.
I turned back to Clyde.
"What happened?" I asked. "What does the doctors knows so far?"
"Test results aren't back yet," George said, pulling up beside me. "They took some blood when he came in. We're still waiting."
I nodded. Kept my eyes on Clyde's face. He looked peaceful.
The doctor arrived some minutes later.
She was a small woman with reading glasses pushed up into her hair and the particular calmness of someone who delivered frightening news regularly enough that she'd learned to carry it without dropping it on people.
"You're the sister?" she asked me.
"Yes."
"His name is Clyde?" She glanced at her clipboard.
"Yes. What's wrong with him?"
She looked up. "The good news is that it isn't serious, and it isn't anything new." She set the clipboard against her hip. "Clyde has asthma. You were aware of that?"
"Of course I am aware—" I stopped, and breathed. "Yes. He's had it since he was nine."
"His inhaler," she said, not unkindly. "It was empty. When he experienced a trigger today — stress, possibly the weather — he had no way to manage the attack. That's what caused him to lose consciousness." She paused to let that settle. "He is completely stable now. His oxygen levels are back to normal. He'll likely wake up within the hour, and there is no lasting concern."
The relief was so sudden and so total that for a moment I genuinely didn't know what to do with my own body. I pressed my fingers against my collarbone.
"He's going to be fine," I said. Not a question exactly. More like testing the words in my mouth.
"He's going to be fine," she confirmed. "Make sure he has a working inhaler. And keep an eye on him the next few days. Let him rest, no strain." She offered a small, professional smile. "Someone will come to sort out the paperwork shortly."
She left.
I sat down in the chair beside Clyde's bed and held his hand with both of mine. It was warm. His pulse moved steadily under my fingers.
An empty inhaler. He hadn't told me it was empty.
George slid into the other chair across from me. In the corridor outside the room. Kingsley slowly walked out.
"So what happened?" I asked George.
George leaned forward. "He was on his way to meet someone from his department. They were assigned a group project by their professor, apparently. He went to her place." He paused. "She's the one who called it in. Said he just went down, mid-conversation. She didn't know about the asthma."
"Nobody knew," I said quietly.
"She handled it well, though. Called the ambulance straight away, stayed with him, called me when she found his phone." George looked at me carefully. "She was shaken up. She kept apologizing, like it was her fault."
"It wasn't."
Clyde woke up forty minutes later. His eyes opened, slow and confused. He looked at the ceiling. Then at the room. Then at me.
"Summer?" His voice was rough.
"Hey." Mine came out softer than I intended.
He blinked a few times, taking stock of himself. "I'm in a hospital."
"Congratulations, you noticed."
A weak smile. "George is here too."
"Also correct."
He tried to sit up slightly and I adjusted his pillow without being asked. He looked at the oxygen line like it had personally offended him.
"I'm fine," he said.
"You fainted."
"I'm fine now."
"Clyde." I kept my voice even. "Your inhaler was empty."
He went very still.
"When did it run out?"
A pause. "...Last week."
"Last week?!" I repeated it back to him at a controlled volume. "You had an empty inhaler for a week and you said nothing to me."
"I didn't want you to worry." He had the decency to look guilty. "You already have so much going on—"
"So instead I get to worry in a hospital," I said. "That's better for me, is it? That's the less stressful option you chose?"
"Summer—"
"Clyde Walker, if you ever—" My voice broke, slightly, I pressed my lips together. "If you ever keep something like that from me again, I will not forgive you. Do you understand me?"
He looked at me for a long moment. Something in his eyes went soft and sorry.
"I'm sorry, Sis," he said quietly.
I squeezed his hand once. Then I let it go.
George, from the corner: "For the record, I'm also very disappointed in you, Clyde."
"Nobody asked you, George," Clyde muttered.
"I am choosing to volunteer my disappointment free of charge."
Clyde actually laughed, which loosened the last tight thing in my chest.
I went to settle the bills, but the nurse said a good Samaritan already did. I looked at Kingsley, he avoided my gaze immediately. I suspect that he is the one.
We settled on George's place for the next few days. Clyde needed rest, and going back to the apartment felt wrong — too empty, too many corners where my anxiety could pace. George didn't offer, he just said you're staying with me in his voice that left no room for negotiation, and I was too tired to perform independence.
Kingsley helped George get Clyde into the car. He was easy about it, natural, like he'd known Clyde for years instead of hours. Clyde, for his part, was already trying to chat him up before we'd even reached the car park.
"So you know my sister from school?"
"We have a class together," Kingsley said.
"Are you two—"
"Clyde," I said flatly.
"I'm just asking—"
"You are recovering from a medical episode. Conserve your energy."
I hugged Kingsley once outside the hospital entrance, briefly, before I could talk myself out of it. He went still for a second, surprised. Then his arms came up.
"Thank you," I said. "For everything "
"Don't mention it," he said.
I pulled back. Looked at him. His face was impossible to read in the low evening light.
"I mean it," I said.
"I know," he said. "Go look after your brother."
We were halfway to George's when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
My stomach dropped. I almost didn't pick up. Then I thought about the photograph of Clyde, and I answered.
"Hello?"
The voice was unfamiliar.
"Dark Bird." Not a question. "Come to the club. Tonight. There's something you need to hear."
"Who is this?"
"Someone who knows what happened today," the voice said."
The line went dead.
- Writer
