Chapter Fourteen
~ Floyd ~
First thing back was the sound: a relentless, nasal beep, perfectly timed to the pound behind my eyes.
The second thing was pain—deep, old, the kind that blooms slow and then sharpens to a pinpoint, radiating from my left temple down into my jaw, curling along the ribs like a wire pulled too tight.
The third thing was the taste: metal and antiseptic, a coppery tinge at the back of my tongue, as if someone had been bleaching the inside of my mouth.
I opened my eyes. Or, more accurately, I tried. One eyelid obeyed; the other seemed to be on strike, held hostage by swelling and a tape butterfly I could already feel itching to tear loose.
The ceiling above me was off-white, pocked with the suspicious brown stains only hospitals and public restrooms managed to cultivate.
The walls were that shade of institutional blue that promised comfort and delivered nothing.
The stink of it—disinfectant, ancient vinyl, recycled air—made me want to retch, but my stomach vetoed the motion.
I took stock, like I always did. Left hand, functional but IV’d, the line taped to my arm with more adhesive than a crime scene.
Right hand, less functional: fingers swollen, two knuckles already purpling.
Bandage above the wrist. I flexed it, and a bolt of agony reminded me that there was still plenty of nerve left to burn.
I glanced down. My torso was wrapped tight, mummy-style, the sheets tented over an uneven terrain that probably mapped out every bad decision I’d ever made.
I tried to sit up, but the world spun—fast, ugly, a carousel from hell. I froze until the room stopped tilting, then inhaled slow, counting the seconds. I needed a fix, something to anchor me, so I cataloged the beeps, the hisses, the muffled voices on the other side of a half-drawn curtain.
“Sheriff Hardesty?” The voice was female, uncertain, carrying that practiced nurse’s lilt: equal parts forced cheer and threat of consequences. “If you’re awake, you’re going to want to stay still. You took quite a hit.”
I turned my head. The nurse stood just inside the curtain, hands behind her back, the kind of posture you use to keep a safe distance from the unpredictable.
She was young, but had the eyes of someone who’d seen a lot more than she’d signed up for.
I tried to speak. The sound that came out was closer to a cough, but she seemed satisfied.
“Can you tell me your name?” she asked.
I swallowed, wincing at the rawness in my throat. “Hardesty. Floyd. Sheriff.” My voice didn’t sound right. Maybe it never had.
She nodded, then stepped closer, flashing a penlight in my eye. “Do you know what year it is?”
“2026,” I said. Then: “Don’t tell me I missed New Year’s.”
She smiled, like it was cute I was awake and already a pain in the ass. “It’s Tuesday. You were admitted early this morning. Can you tell me what happened?”
The memories came in chunks, each jagged and out of order: the call from dispatch, the smell of fresh paint and panic, the scrawny figure in the hoodie, the blur of fists and the taste of my own blood.
Then the tattoo shop, Ransom’s art—slashed, violated, ruined.
Something twisted in my chest, harder than any of the physical pain.
I licked my lips. “Was there… vandalism? At Inked Rebellion?”
She hesitated, then nodded. “Yes. Your deputy reported it. You apprehended the suspect before you—” Her eyes flicked to my chart, then back to me. “Before you lost consciousness.”
I tried to sit up again. This time, I managed a few inches before the nurse’s hand was on my shoulder, gentle but unyielding. “Slow down. You’ve got a pretty significant concussion, and the doctors want you immobile until they can run a few more tests.”
My head pulsed, but I forced the words out. “Is the shop okay?”
She glanced away. “The police report said a lot of property damage. They’re still collecting evidence.”
I could see it, even through the haze: Ransom’s work, defaced with angry, black lines; his pride, shredded and splayed out for the world to mock.
I’d been three weeks without him, and already I’d let his one safe space get torn apart by a petty little nothing.
I gripped the edge of the sheets, the pain of the movement a good distraction.
“Did you catch the bastard?” I asked.
She shook her head, a flicker of dissatisfaction in her eyes. “Not yet, but they’re looking for him.”
I let my head fall back against the pillow. The pulse monitor beeped faster for a second, then stabilized. The nurse adjusted the IV, then took a step back. “The doctor will be in to see you soon. Is there anyone you want us to call?”
For a split second, I wanted to say no. I wanted to say there was no one left. Instead, the truth came out, soft and ugly: “Already called?”
She hesitated. “Your emergency contact has been notified. He said he’s on his way.”
For a heartbeat, the world shrank to that one word: He. I didn’t list any male family, not in the last five years. There was only one he in my paperwork, and he was the reason I’d even survived the last three years of this job.
I tried to process what that meant. Had the department called Ransom? Had Latham? Would Ransom even come, after the last words we’d exchanged?
The nurse must have seen the panic, because she laid a hand on my forearm, softening. “Is there someone else you’d rather we contact?”
I shook my head. “No. It’s fine. It’s—” My voice broke, and I swallowed the rest.
She nodded and slipped out, leaving the curtain half-closed. I could hear the rustle of charts and the low hum of voices. My chest hurt more than my side now, a pressure building under the ribs.
A few minutes passed, then the curtain snapped open and a man in a white coat stepped in, his smile as fake as a DMV photo. “Sheriff Hardesty. Good to see you awake.” He ran through the usual script: name, year, place, the president. I passed with flying colors, which seemed to disappoint him.
He rattled off the injuries: “Severe concussion, facial lacerations—fifteen stitches, by the way, you’ll have a hell of a scar—two fractured ribs, and a mild kidney contusion. You’re lucky.”
I didn’t feel lucky. I felt hollow.
“Can I leave?” I asked.
He snorted. “Absolutely not. You’ll be in here for at least a day, probably more. If you’re lucky, the swelling in your brain will go down and you won’t have to stay longer.”
He ran through a checklist of symptoms—nausea, confusion, dizziness, headache.
I answered honestly, even though it made me look weak.
He didn’t linger; just gave me a nod and a patronizing “We’ll check on you again soon.
” The moment he was gone, I reached for the plastic water cup on the tray, nearly spilling it down my front before getting a sip.
There was a voice in the hallway, louder than before, arguing with the nurse. I recognized it even through the fog—Deputy Latham, with his relentless drawl and the subtle note of panic he tried to bury under professionalism.
He poked his head in, eyes going wide when he saw I was conscious. “Well, shit. You really are indestructible.”
I glared at him. “Feel like a wet sack of cement.”
He laughed, but it sounded strained. “You look like one, too.” He shuffled inside, hands jammed in his pockets, not meeting my eye. “I called him, like you told me to. McKenzie. Said he was already on the way.”
I closed my eyes, let out a slow breath. “Thanks, Latham.”
There was a long pause, then: “You want to talk about it?” He meant the call, or maybe the shop, or maybe the last three weeks of me coming unspooled. Didn’t matter. The answer was the same.
“No,” I said, and meant it.
He nodded. “Just… let me know if you need anything. Medical said they’re keeping you until tomorrow, minimum. You’re going to have visitors.”
I smirked, just a little. “Thought I was the least popular guy in the county these days.”
He shrugged. “Guess word gets around.”
He left me with that. When the door closed, I let my eyes fall shut.
I pictured the shop, the beautiful flash art, the way Ransom’s hands would move when he was lost in the work.
I thought of the mess left behind, and wondered if he’d ever forgive me for not keeping it safe. I wondered if he’d even show up.
I lay there, listening to the pulse monitor, wishing I could fast forward to whatever came next. But that wasn’t how it worked. Never was.
Time went liquid. At first I tried to track it, counting the intervals between the nurse’s check-ins, the cool pressure of blood pressure cuffs, the drip-drip in the IV line, the shift changes announced by new faces and the sterile chit-chat at the nurse’s station.
But the drugs made everything slippery. I’d blink, and ten minutes would dissolve into a half hour.
I’d close my eyes, and in the space of a single breath, it could be midnight or high noon or some hourless void where nothing ever happened but the endless beep of the monitor and the ache in my skull.
The first dream came on like a sucker punch: I was in Ransom’s shop, but it wasn’t wrecked. It was the way I remembered it before everything went to shit—walls lined with his sketches, the heavy air tinged with ink and aftershave, the low growl of classic rock from the speakers.
He stood over me, arms crossed, smile tilted like he was waiting for me to make a move or a mistake or both.
His hair was tied back, exposing the scar above his eyebrow that I’d only ever traced with my thumb, never my mouth.
He looked at me, and I couldn’t tell if it was challenge or invitation, but I reached for him anyway.
My hand passed right through. The room flickered, the colors draining out, and I jolted awake with my fist clenched tight around nothing but hospital sheets.