Chapter 3
LAINE
"Brother, I understand the butterflies are beautiful, but I need you to focus," a man's voice drifts from the hallway. "Can you tell me your name?"
I'm adjusting my patient's IV drip, but I pause. There's something about the voice — patient, amused, warm — that snags my attention.
"The butterflies told me their names," comes the muffled reply. "But they said I can't tell anyone until I learn to fly."
My patient, a woman training for a marathon who passed out on a trail, raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like someone's having an interesting evening."
"Interesting is right!" I finish with her IV and check her chart. "Your blood work should be back in about an hour, okay?"
"I'm not going anywhere." She settles back against her pillows. "Though I might ask for some of whatever that guy's having. Flying sounds nice right about now."
I laugh and head toward the door as the conversation in the hallway continues.
"That's totally understandable," the voice says. "Flying does sound pretty great. But right now, I need to make sure you're okay. Can you wiggle your fingers for me?"
"My fingers are turning into feathers. See?"
"Woah. Those are some impressive feathers. Aerodynamic. Very... majestic." The voice is dry, calm, but underneath, there's a distinct vibration of suppressed laughter.
It's the laughter that has me smiling. Whoever this guy is, he's good. I've seen too many people get frustrated with confused patients — talking louder, like volume fixes hallucinations, or worse, getting visibly annoyed. This one's rolling with it like he does this every day. Maybe he does.
"Laine?" Joyce appears beside me. "We've got incoming. Medic's bringing in a festival casualty who thinks he's dissolving."
"Dissolving?"
"Apparently he's convinced his molecules are separating. Been sitting in the middle of Fifth Street trying to hold himself together."
I glance toward the next room where butterfly guy is still explaining his transformation. "Is that the same crew?"
"Probably. They've been running festival calls all evening."
The EMT emerges from room six, and I get my first look at him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Rumpled uniform like he got dressed in the dark and didn't care.
Dark hair that's going in about four different directions — the kind of messy that says he's been raking his hands through it all night, not the kind that says he spent twenty minutes with product.
But it's the energy that registers first. He's not walking so much as vibrating, like his body can't quite contain whatever's happening inside it.
When he turns, I catch green eyes — no, hazel, with green flecks — and a jaw that could cut glass, offset by a mouth that's already halfway to a grin.
My brain does this unhelpful thing where it stops processing medical information and starts processing other information. Shoulders. Forearms. The way his uniform pulls across his chest when he turns.
Cool. Very professional. You're at work, Mitchell.
"Reid," Joyce calls. "What's the story on our butterfly friend?"
Reid. Filed away. Not that I'm filing it. Just... observing. Observationally.
"Patient's twenty-three, took something at the festival about three hours ago," Reid says, pulling off his gloves with a snap.
"Had an ID in his wallet — Marcus Hamilton.
Vitals are stable, but he's having some pretty vivid hallucinations.
No aggressive behavior, just really committed to this whole turning-into-a-butterfly thing. "
Joyce sighs and props her hands on her hips. "And the dissolving guy?"
"Tony's right behind me with him," Reid says, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the automatic doors. "He's convinced his legs are liquid, so he's in the wheelchair."
"I'll take butterfly guy," I tell Joyce.
"Thanks, hon. My spidey senses are telling me we're in for a long night."
No way would I doubt a nurse with Joyce's experience. If she thinks the crap's about to hit the fan, then it is. "I'm ready."
Reid glances over as I speak. Our eyes meet, and the grin widens into something genuine and blinding. Full wattage. The kind of smile that makes you forget what you were doing and then feel stupid about forgetting.
He gives me a quick, two-finger salute. "Good luck with the metamorphosis."
Say something. Anything. You have a mouth and words and a degree.
He's already turning away.
Great. Nailed it.
Joyce smiles at me. "That's Reid Garrison. He's a good medic. He's been around a few years."
Yeah, she totally saw me looking. I could lie about it. I won't. "He seemed to handle the butterfly situation pretty well."
"Yeah, he doesn't get rattled. At least, I've never seen it."
The automatic doors whoosh open, and who I assume is Reid's partner appears, pushing a wheelchair with a guy who is clutching his arms across his chest like he's trying to physically hold his chest together. Reid immediately steps in to help guide them.
"It's okay, Brett," Reid is saying, leaning over the patient, invading his space in a way that seems comforting rather than aggressive. "We're inside now. No wind in here."
"But what if I fall apart in there?" Brett's voice is high and panicked. "What if the air conditioning blows my pieces around?"
"The air conditioning is set to 'gentle breeze' only," Reid assures him with absolute conviction. "And the nurses here have the medical-grade superglue. They are experts at keeping people in one piece. Trust me."
Joyce and I trade glances, both grinning.
"Medical-grade superglue?" I whisper. She rolls her eyes and waves a hand at me.
This guy is something else. The patient is buying every word though, which is all that matters.
I've worked with a lot of first responders — stoic ones, burned-out ones, ones who treat patients like cargo — and I can count on one hand the ones who would invent medical-grade superglue to keep a hallucinating stranger calm.
Dr. Cervantes appears. "What've we got?"
"Brett Reynolds, twenty-five, also took something at the festival," Reid reports, voice turning all professional, though he's still tapping a rhythm on the wheelchair handle like he's got a song stuck in his head and his body won't let it go.
"Vitals stable, but he's pretty sure his body is dissolving. Molecular instability."
Dr. Cervantes barely blinks. "Any idea what they took?"
"No one's talking."
Dr. Cervantes nods. "Bay four for Brett. And the other patient?"
"Bay six," I say. "I've got him."
Reid glances at me again as they wheel Brett toward bay four. This time the look lasts a beat longer. Warm. Appreciative. The kind of look that says I see you without being creepy about it, which is a surprisingly rare skill.
I smile at him, because why the heck not? A hot guy with great bedside manner who invents medical-grade superglue for scared patients deserves a smile.
He smiles back — and it's a full-body thing, crinkling his eyes, shifting his weight, like smiling requires his entire skeleton — and I let myself enjoy it for exactly one second before heading to bay six.
One second. That's reasonable. That's a normal amount of time to enjoy a man's smile. Shut up.
"Hey, Marcus," I say to butterfly guy. "I'm Laine. Let's get you settled."
Marcus looks like he could pass for a college freshman, with sandy hair and pupils so dilated his eyes look black. He's sitting on the edge of the bed, moving his arms in slow, fluttering motions.
"The other man said you'd help me learn to fly," he tells me seriously.
"Reid said that?"
He hums, staring at the ceiling and almost tipping backward. I tug his arm until he's back to sitting. "Is that his name? He understands about the transformation. He has a very yellow aura."
Yellow. Huh. I don't see auras — that particular skill was not covered in nursing school — but if I did, yellow seems right. Something bright and slightly ridiculous and hard to look away from.
I check his vitals while we talk. Blood pressure slightly elevated, heart rate fast but not dangerous. "What kind of transformation are you going through?"
"I'm becoming a butterfly. It started with my hands, but now I can feel it happening to my whole body." He holds up his hands and wiggles his fingers, eyes crossing as he stares at them. "See the feathers?"
His hands look completely normal. Also, butterflies don't have feathers. But I don't think telling him that will make anything about this situation better.
"They do look different," I agree. "How do you feel? Any pain or nausea?"
"No pain. Just... changing." He attempts another wing flap. "It's beautiful, but scary. I've never been a butterfly before."
"That's totally understandable. Becoming a butterfly is a pretty special experience."
Marcus hums and starts mumbling to himself.
"How's our Monarch doing?" Reid asks from the doorway.
I turn. He's leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one ankle crossed over the other.
He looks completely at home, like he's lounging on a porch rather than standing in a chaotic ER.
I get the feeling this man could make himself comfortable anywhere — a foxhole, a funeral, a burning building.
Just lean against the nearest surface and settle in.
"Just checking on his wings," I say.
"They're getting stronger," Marcus announces proudly. "But I still can't fly."
"These things take time," Reid says, walking into the room. He hops up to sit on the counter next to the sink, swinging his legs like a kid. Like a big, grown, uniformed kid. "You don't want to rush the chrysalis phase, buddy. That's how you get lopsided wings. Nobody wants to fly in circles."