The Complication (The Program #6)(88)

As Wes sits on the table with his shirt off, his hair wet, I realize that he’s barefoot. On top of that, his shoulder is lower on the right side, drooped down at a significant angle. It’s turning blue, a bruise spreading quickly.

“I’m going to wrap up the shoulder and give you a sling,” Nurse Belmont says. “You okay with shots?” She rolls her stool over to a drawer and takes out a syringe.

Wes’s teeth chatter, and I think he might be in shock. I walk over to him and lean my cheek against his temple, rubbing his back. His skin is freezing cold.

“I love shots,” he says, miserable, and Nurse Belmont laughs.

My grandmother paces the room nervously, and I’m glad she was able to help us. Wes wouldn’t have gotten far without some kind of assistance tonight. As it is, I still have a terrible pain in my head, a new one in my leg. We’re getting our asses kicked over here.

“Tatum,” my grandmother says gently. “Can we talk?”

“Yeah,” I say, and tell Wes I’ll be right back. He reaches for me first, wincing, and murmurs something about giving him a kiss. It’s so pathetic in the most adorable way, so of course, I lean in and do just that. I really hope Nurse Belmont gives him some good drugs for the pain.

My gram leads me to another room. My grandfather joins us, shaking the rain off his jacket. While my grandmother inspects my head wound, I tell her what happened with Dorothy. She doesn’t say anything at first but gets an ice pack and holds it to my head. My grandfather gets aspirin from where my grandmother points it out, and I take two with a sip of water.

“Concussion,” my grandmother says sternly, looking down at me. She’s still holding the ice on my head, and I smile at her.

“Mild,” I say.

“Yes, but still a concussion,” she says. “I’d make you stay here for monitoring, but clearly that’s not a good idea. I’m hoping you have a better one. Because right now, my idea would involve getting Dr. Warren and Dorothy Ambrose sent to prison.”

“We’ll get there,” Pop says, and turns to me. “Have you updated Realm?”

“I’m meeting him in about two hours,” I reply.

“Good,” my grandmother says. “First, you should call Nathan and see if he can bring Weston some shoes.”

“Right,” I reply. I take the ice pack from her hand, holding it myself, and call Nathan to update him.

He and Wes have about the same shoe size, so fifteen minutes later, he comes by and drops off a pair of sneakers with socks, and two jackets for us.

He’s obviously worried, but our plan remains intact. I need his help rooting out the other handlers. Foster probably already knows who to look at.

After Nathan’s gone, I go back into the room with Wes, finding him lying on the table, groggy. His arm is in a black sling. He smiles slowly when he sees me.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says easily. I blush, a little embarrassed. And Nurse Belmont smiles at me.

“I gave him something for the pain, as well as a steroid. He should keep the shoulder iced when he can, and come back in a few days. We have to refer him to see if he’ll need surgery.”

I tell her I understand, but Wes isn’t listening. He’s gazing at me, hopped up on whatever Nurse Belmont gave him. He smiles broadly, and I have to laugh.

“We should go,” I tell him. He nods like that’s a good idea, but he’s slow to get up. Pop comes into the room to help him.

The nurse tells us the brunt of the painkiller will wear off in about a half hour, and after that, it’ll leave him a little fuzzy around the edges.

“Will I be sore later?” Wes asks. Nurse Belmont actually laughs out loud.

“Yes. Absolutely.”

Nurse Belmont says good-bye to me, and after I give my gram a hug, promising to call her soon, the two women go off to discuss tonight’s situation. This is the first time I’ve seen my grandmother as the person Dr. McKee described. A woman connected, leading even. It never occurred to me the kind of sway she had at the hospital until now.

Pop walks us out and gets Wes into the car. We look around, checking to make sure we’re not being watched, and then I tell Pop that I love him.

“Be careful,” he says, sounding desperate. He looks like he might cry, and honestly, I don’t blame him. If this weren’t my story, I’d think it was already too late. But I won’t give up.

It’s The Program or me. And I decide it’s going to be me.

? ? ?

Wes sleeps on the way to the diner, waking up when I park in the lot, hidden toward the back in a spot with no lights. The rain has finally stopped, leaving everything soaked and wilted. We’re a half hour early, and the restaurant appears to be deserted. There’s only one other car near the back door, probably someone who works there.

“I don’t think we should go inside,” Wes says, groaning as he adjusts his position in the seat. “Let’s see who arrives first. Get a better idea what we’re dealing with.”

“I agree,” I say, and look sideways at him. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m . . . ,” Wes starts, wincing once. “I’m kind of irritated that the drugs are wearing off.” He smiles and turns to me. He holds out his good hand to call me toward him.

I move over as far as I can and rest my head on the edge of his seat rather than on his shoulder. I slip my hand into his, and he intertwines our fingers and rests them on his lap.