1. Peter
1
Peter
Beep. Beep. Beep.
The sound was more familiar than it had any right to be. Groggy and floating, the fog pulled at me as I swam for the surface. Little by little, I returned to my body to find my limbs too heavy, the thin, scratchy sheet tucked too tight around me. I blinked a few times, the bright light blinding, before finally giving up and closing my eyes again. I tried to swallow but my mouth was too dry, the sides of my throat rasping together like sandpaper. I opened my mouth to say something and failed, my tongue seemingly thick and furry. I tried a second time and managed to get a few words out, but mere seconds later, I’d already lost track of what they were.
I heard someone moving nearby and cracked one eye open to see an unfamiliar nurse appear above me, his smile wide, the corners of his dark eyes crinkling. His pink scrubs had rainbows and kittens on them. Was I in the pediatric ward? “Welcome back, Mr. Brown. My name is Cesar. How are you feeling?”
I grunted. It was easier than trying to speak. My mouth and throat were sticky and dry, and tasted like old shoes.
The nurse’s smile widened, unfazed by my groggy attitude. “Your surgery lasted just under two hours, but Doctor Kwan said there were no complications. He’ll come see you himself a little later and go over some information with you. We’re going to get you moved out of recovery in just a few minutes, okay? Just hang tight, and you’ll be sucking on a popsicle in no time.”
Fuck. I hated waking up from surgery. But I would still eat the fucking popsicle.
This was my fourth surgery—or was it fifth?—over the past year. It wasn’t like the number was too high to keep track of, but after the second one, everything kinda started to blur together. The first surgery had been about stopping blood loss first and foremost, and I had no memory of that one at all. I’d been mostly dead, after all. Waking up in a hospital had been a shock, and a painful one at that. I remembered praying for death that first week, the pain nearly blinding when they didn’t have me heavily sedated.
I used to be an FBI agent. Technically, I still was, though I was on extended medical leave, obviously. My partner, Amy Abadi, and I had been posing as a married couple, hiding out in some cookie-cutter suburban neighborhood to protect a witness. We just needed to keep him safe and hidden until the case against the mob boss, Bruno “The Butcher” Santana, could go to court. We’d known it would be dangerous, and we’d been careful. But sometimes, all it took was one small mistake to throw the whole plan in the shitter. In this case, it was a matter of trusting the wrong person, a mole in the agency.
We’d had almost no warning, just a frantic phone call cut short, but it had been enough—kinda, sorta. Our witness survived, at least, which was all that mattered in the end. Amy had suffered a concussion. And me? I had barely had enough time to pull my gun before the guy came out of nowhere and stabbed me.
It was easiest to think about clinically. First, the knife had gone in my back, nicking my bowel. The second stab had punctured my kidney. The third and fourth were all nerve damage. The result? Acute blood loss and subsequent transfusion. Partial nephrectomy to remove the damaged part of my kidney. Bowel resection to remove a section of my intestines, which included an ostomy. And now, after blood tests and scopes and a hefty dose of laxatives to clear the pipes, the final surgery to have the ostomy reversed.
This was it. I was officially patched up and ready to go. And I’d done it all without my family’s support.
I’d known I wanted to apply to the FBI even before I’d finished my undergrad in criminology. It had sounded exciting and diverse, lots of travel, and I loved the idea of helping to put away criminals. My mom, however, had disagreed. After she found out I’d applied and been accepted, she’d told me that if I went through with it, I should leave and never come back.
Most days I believed it was worth it, but right about now…
True to his word, the nurse came back and kicked off the brakes, gently urging the bed into a roll. He chatted lightly while we made our way down the hall. I stared up at the ceiling tiles sliding past until it made my head spin, then I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep.
“Lucky you, you’ve got a private room all to yourself,” Cesar gushed, somehow making it sound like he was talking about the penthouse suite. “Do you want the TV on?”
I didn’t answer, but it turned out he wasn’t waiting for one. He turned on some daytime talk show then set the remote on the bed within reach. Then he rounded the bed and draped the call button over the bedrail. “If you’re in pain or if you need anything, push this button and one of the nurses will come and check on you.”
I immediately reached over and pushed the button, and he raised a saucy eyebrow at me, smirking. “Yes?”
“I’m in pain,” I gritted out, my voice gravelly after being intubated.
“Yes, that is to be expected, which is why you’re already being given painkillers,” he said, pointing to the IV still inserted into the back of my hand. “But I can talk to your doctor and see what else we can offer for pain relief. Deal?”
I grunted again. In truth, I was pretty much always in pain, but whatever they were currently giving me certainly took the edge off. I should’ve been grateful for the temporary reprieve.
I was saved from having to form an actual response by a knock on the open door. “Knock, knock,” a voice said unnecessarily as Amy peeked in. She was smiling, which was nothing new—she was always smiling. I tried not to begrudge her. “Hey, partner.”
Cesar waved her in. “Perfect timing, come on in. I was just leaving.”
As he left and Amy made herself comfortable on the chair by my bedside, I closed my eyes. It was too late to pretend to be sleeping, but I really wasn’t ready for company. It was hard to wallow when the embodiment of sunshine was flashing smiles at me.
“So, can we officially celebrate now?” Amy held up a large bag and wiggled it around in front of me. “No more surgeries, yay!”
“Did you bring me a burger?” I asked brusquely, brushing past her question. I was in no mood to celebrate. “Maybe some fries?”
She gave me a mock glare. “Nice try. I happen to know for a fact that you’re on a liquid diet today. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll get some mashed potatoes tomorrow.” She reached into the bag and pulled out… socks. “Ta-da!”
I raised an eyebrow at her, too tired to tell her it was a lame gift. But she was not the type to be dissuaded, so she got up and made her way to the end of the bed, where she untucked my blanket to expose my feet. I couldn’t help glancing down my body at them. They were too pale, smaller than I remembered them. I’d lost weight all over. Yep, I’d been on the near-death crash diet. It was all the rage.
“There, how’s that?” she asked, rubbing my newly socked feet.
Another grunt. I refused to admit that the fuzzy socks were kind of nice. Acknowledging something good kind of felt like a betrayal to all the bad things that were taking up my focus. And they definitely needed all my focus. Amy just smiled slyly like she knew what I was thinking. She probably did. You couldn’t work as closely as we did without developing a sixth sense about each other.
“What else you got in that bag?” I asked out of curiosity when it looked like she wasn’t going to show me. This, of course, just made her smile wider.
“You’re so lucky. I’ve got… paperwork!” She added jazz hands, as if that would somehow make it more fun. “You need to fill it in for benefits. And also, Chalmers wanted to talk to you about—”
“Pass,” I snapped, cutting her off. Whatever my boss at the bureau had to say, I didn’t want to hear it.
“Ignoring it won’t make it go away,” she chastised.
“You say that, but how will I know for sure unless I try really hard. What else?” I asked, indicating the bag in her lap. Whatever else was in there had better be more fun than fucking paperwork.
It turned out her bag was a whole care package of homey items to make the new few days in the hospital more tolerable. Warm blankets and slippers, even a fuzzy beanie, because she knew I always got cold after surgery. Hand lotion scented with lavender and a pair of comfy pajamas. “They have a drawstring waist so you can make them as loose as you need around your incision.”
I stared down at the blanket now draped over my lap, and dammit, my eyes burned with the threat of tears. “Thanks, Amy,” I whispered through my dry throat.
Her smile turned sad. “Anytime.”
Her eyes took on a glassy sheen that was going to make me lose all sense of composure, so I cleared my throat and said, “That nurse promised a popsicle.”
She laughed lightly. “Alright, I can take a hint. No getting sappy on me. I’ll go get you that popsicle. Any particular flavor?”
“Anything bur orange,” I requested. “Please,” I added, reminding myself that I couldn’t be a total dick, not to the one person who’d always had my back.
When there was another knock on the door, I just assumed it would be Amy returning, but instead, it was my surgeon, Dr. Kwan.
The short man had dark brown skin and a terrific bedside manner. “How are you feeling, Agent Brown?” That title made my stomach clench, and I turned my face toward the ceiling, head swimming as I tried to tune him out. I didn’t want to listen to anything he said. Did any of it even matter? The surgery was over, but I would never fully heal. This was just fact.
He settled into Amy’s chair, and I was tempted to snub him like a belligerent child, but I forced myself to turn my head in his direction. Didn’t mean I had to look him in the eye, though.
“Everything went really well, best-case scenario. We are going to keep you here for a few days to keep an eye on things for the first little while, but you’ll be home in no time. Do you remember everything we talked about before your surgery?”
I sighed in reply. He was talking about all the potential risks to a surgery like this. Leaks and sepsis. Blood clots. Infections. And in the future, hernias or blockages. This “best-case scenario” he talked about would still involve discomfort and bloating at the very least.
“What about something for the pain,” I asked.
Dr. Kwan paused for a second, watching me. “Any pain you feel from this surgery will be pretty mild. You should be able to manage with regular Tylenol.”
“But it’s not just this surgery, is it,” I forced out through clenched teeth. In fact, I’d been in pain well before today, and there was no end in sight. I’d been living with it for so long that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like not to have the constant dull throbbing through my back, with the occasional jag of lightning tearing through me if I moved too fast. Nerve damage was unpredictable at best.
The surgeon went still for a second, then nodded, and a look passed over his face—pity. I hated it immediately, because it wasn’t the first time I’d seen it. I saw it every time I left the house, I saw it last night at the hotel when the elevator was broken. They were all so damn sorry . Before this happened, nobody had ever pitied me for anything. I was strong, independent, brave. Now I was… this . A patient. A burden.
Dr. Kwan nodded and finally said, “Let me consult with your other doctors, and we’ll come up with the right pain-management plan for you. But please remember, Peter, it all gets better from here. Take things one day at a time. We’ll get you settled with some physical therapy, help you get your strength and mobility back. Okay?” He sighed. “Peter, your accident was tragic but—”
“Oh, it wasn’t an accident , Doctor. I assure you, he fully intended to stab me,” I said before he could get any further into his “ brighter days ahead ” speech. “It wasn’t like he tripped and fell into me four times. The only accident was that I didn’t die.” It was so much easier to be angry, to find someone to blame, than it was to admit that bad things happened sometimes.
Dr. Kwan nodded. “You get some rest, okay? I’ll stop by to see you tomorrow.”
I nodded jerkily and moved to stare up at the ceiling again. I counted the dots in the foam tile as I waited for him to get the hint that it was time to leave.
A few minutes later, Amy returned. “I got cherry and lime,” she said, brandishing two popsicles, one in each hand. “Which one do you want first?” I picked cherry obviously, but I made sure I wasn’t happy about it.
We sat in silence together, watching an old Judge Judy rerun. The cherry popsicle managed to ease the pain in my dry throat and banished the old-shoe taste. I ate it too slowly, though, so Amy ate the lime one before it could melt.
Eventually, sleep began to claim me, and my eyes drifted closed. Amy quietly took the popsicle stick from my hand and dimmed the lights on her way out the door.
I would do it all again , I told myself. To save someone’s life, I would do it all again in a heartbeat . I always knew what it meant signing up for the bureau, and I’d done my job. We saved the witness, we put the bad guy behind bars. But if I had a redo… maybe I wouldn’t have tried so hard to stay alive.