Logic kicks in when I remember Hurley isn’t dead—at least as far as I know. I try to speak again, but my chest is on fire and I cough so hard it feels like I’m hacking up a lung. That’s when I realize I’m not dead either, though given the pain I’m feeling, I’m not sure if that’s cause for celebration.
I sense that I’m lying in a bed, and when I finally open my eyes I find myself staring into a too-bright ceiling light that momentarily blinds me. That first cough has multiplied into dozens, a prolonged spasm that makes me start to gag, and I push up from the bed into a sitting position.
“Whoa!” Hurley says, placing the palm of his hand against the front of my shoulder. “Easy there.”
As my vision slowly returns I can just make out Hurley standing beside me. The wall behind him shifts and I’m not sure if it’s the movement of my head created by the coughing jag that’s creating the illusion, or if I’m hallucinating. When another face joins Hurley’s, I recognize Phyllis “Syph” Malone and realize the wall is actually a curtain, and that I’m in the ER.
I continue to cough and my head feels like it’s about to explode. Along the periphery of my vision I can see tiny, sparkling lights floating in the air. Syph shoves a paper cup of water under my nose and says, “Here. Drink. It will help.”
I go for the cup like a drowning man gasping for air, but when I try to swallow I’m seized by another hacking spasm and spew water all over the bedsheet. After sputtering like a dying engine for a few seconds, I try again and finally manage to get some of the water down.
It hurts like hell at first, like I’m trying to swallow a handful of razor blades. But eventually it gets easier and by the time I empty the cup, the cool water has become a soothing balm. Even better, the coughing has ceased, at least for now, though I suspect it will return since I can feel my lungs desperately trying to squeeze out all the crap in them.
“Better?” Syph asks.
I say yes and the word comes out as a hoarse croak.
“Don’t try to talk too much yet,” Syph says. “You inhaled a ton of smoke and your throat probably looks like a very used chimney right about now.”
Mention of the fire brings my memories back. “David?” I manage to rasp, watching Syph’s expression closely.
Concern flits across her face, but it’s there and gone in a blink, quickly replaced by her placid professional persona. It’s an expression I know and understand all too well as I’ve worn it a few times myself. Delivering mixed or bad news is an unpleasant but necessary part of working in an ER.
“He’s stable for now,” Syph says, and I squeeze my eyes closed with relief. “But he’s unconscious. He inhaled a lot of smoke and has a minor head injury. They’re debating on whether or not to intubate him.”
“Damn,” I whisper. Despite the antagonistic nature of our relationship of late, I don’t want David dead, even if I did secretly wish it a time or two a few months ago after catching my coworker playing his skin flute.
Syph grabs ahold of my hand and squeezes it. “He’s alive and that’s because of you. They said that if you hadn’t dragged him down those stairs, he’d be dead for sure.”
“You’re a hero,” Hurley says, and Syph nods. She gives my hand one last squeeze and then lets it go.
“Try to get some rest,” Syph says. “They want to keep you here for a while to make sure your respiratory status is okay, but I suspect they’ll spring you in a couple of hours. I’ll be back in a bit. Holler if you need anything.”
“I will. Thanks.”
As soon as Syph disappears behind the curtain wall, Hurley leans down and rests his arms on the side rail of my stretcher. “That was a brave but stupid thing you did tonight, Winston. You should have waited for the fire department to get there. You could have been killed.”
“I couldn’t just stand there and let David burn to death,” I protest, wincing with the pain in my throat. I sip more of the water and feel a little relief. “I thought you were making yourself scarce,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“I heard the call go out over my radio and recognized the address. I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
I suppose I should be flattered but given that I’ve become Hurley’s only secret ally of late, I can’t help but wonder if his motive might have been something else. “Do they know how the fire started?”
Hurley frowns and hesitates a second before he answers, and I know the news won’t be good. “It was arson. The firemen found an empty gas can in the kitchen and there is an obvious pour pattern in one of the front rooms of the house.”
“Who? How? And why?” I ask as the questions whirl through my mind. Hurley’s frown deepens and a blanket of dread settles over my shoulders.
“They’re not sure yet,” he says. “There were no obvious signs of a break-in other than the basement window where we assumed you went in.”
I nod. “It was already broken when I got there. I tried the doors first but they were all locked.”
“Yeah, they figured that was how you got in when they found Hoover in the basement barking like a maniac.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought of Hoover raising the alarm. Then it hits me. “Oh, no, where is Hoover?”
“He’s fine. Dom took him.”
“It’s all because of Hoover that I even discovered the fire,” I say. “He woke me up by barking like crazy, and when I let him out he practically pointed to the house. I could already see flames coming out the windows.” I pause and swallow some more water. “How much damage is there?”
“It’s a total loss. Part of the back section of the house is still standing but other than that, it’s just ash and rubble.”
My eyes start to burn and tear, and I’m not sure if it’s because they’re irritated or because I’m so upset thinking about all that’s been lost in the fire. “Why?” I ask Hurley, knowing he can’t give me an answer. “Why would anyone do something like this?”
“I don’t know for sure but I have an idea.”
My eyes probe his, questioning, demanding that he go on.
Hurley leans in closer to me. “There’s something else I need to tell you,” he says, dropping his voice to just above a whisper. Judging from the expression on his face I fear things are about to tank faster than a patient having a widow-maker MI. “David and I had a bit of an incident the other day.”
I take a second to try to parse this but come up blank. “What do you mean, you had an incident?”
“I ran into him at the grocery store and we had a discussion that got a bit . . . how should I put it? It got rather heated.” It’s not the best choice of descriptor given the night’s events but I keep my opinion to myself. “And there were a number of people who witnessed the whole thing.”
“What happened?”
“David basically told me I’m the reason your marriage has fallen apart, that I keep interfering with his attempts to reconcile with you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Not according to him. He was quite angry and very determined. And it isn’t the first time he’s approached me. When I went to see him for my follow-up visit after my surgery, he laid a guilt trip on me, implying that since he saved my life the least I could do was back off so you two can patch things up.”
“There’s nothing to patch up. I’m done with him. He knows that.”