Chapter 4
Caroline Atkins?
“C’mon, someone’s gotta be looking for him,” I say, practically chasing after Dr. Wyle like a nurse-shaped shadow. “You’ve seen his face—he looks like he belongs on the cover of GQ: Post-Accident Edition. At least give him a few more days.”
Wyle doesn’t even slow down, just flips a chart and keeps walking like we’re not talking about a living, breathing mystery man with no name and too many bruises.
“Carol, I can’t do that. There’s nothing physically wrong with him anymore. We’ve already pushed his discharge twice. I can’t justify a third without a psych hold or a fresh wound.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle I don’t pass out. “He can’t remember who he is, Wyle. He doesn’t know if he’s got parents, a dog, a parole officer—nothing. You’re just gonna toss him out like hospital trash day and hope he lands on his feet?”
Wyle sighs like I’m a persistent rash. “We did what we could. The CT was clean, MRI shows no long-term damage, and psych says he’s lucid. He just has amnesia, Carol. We don’t admit people for inconvenient identity loss.”
“Inconvenient my ass,” I snap, arms crossed like I might physically block the poor guy’s discharge myself. “He’s got no ID, no phone, no money. We’re basically kicking a half-naked, confused man into the streets and praying he remembers his Social Security number on the way to the bus stop.”
Wyle finally stops, turns to face me. “He’ll go to a shelter. Social services will step in. That’s their job.”
“That’s your solution? Dump ‘Hot Concussion Guy’ into a halfway house and hope someone recognizes his abs?”
He gives me a tired look. “This isn’t a soap opera, Carol.”
“Well no shit,” I hiss. “Because if it was, I’d be dramatically ripping off my mask right now and revealing I’m his long-lost wife or some crap. Instead, I’m just the nurse who gives enough of a fuck not to kick a lost man out into the cold with a head full of scrambled eggs.”
Wyle pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“Oh, absolutely fucking not,” I say with a smile. “So either you find me some bureaucratic loophole to keep him in that bed, or you better believe I’m gonna clock out and walk him home myself.”
Unfortunately for me—and Crash—Wyle, that smug, beige bastard, goes ahead and files the goddamn discharge papers like we’re talking about ordering takeout and not ejecting an amnesiac mystery man into the wild unknown.
He doesn’t even flinch. Just signs his name with that dry-ass signature I’ve seen on a thousand forms, like he’s mailing in a prescription instead of upending a life.
I stand there, jaw halfway to the floor, watching him hand the folder off to the front desk like it’s any other day, any other patient.
“You’ve got to be shitting me,” I mutter, loud enough for at least three residents and a candy striper to hear.
He shrugs. Shrugs. Like, sorry your adorable lost boy is about to become a statistic, Carol, but rules are rules.
I want to throw something. Maybe the defibrillator. Maybe him.
“You’re really gonna just cut him loose?” I say, following him again like a caffeinated terrier on a mission. “No name. No wallet. No pants, Wyle. The man still doesn’t have fucking pants and your brilliant medical opinion is ‘welp, good luck, champ’?”
Wyle doesn’t even break stride. “He’s medically stable. We can’t justify the bed. We need the room.”
“Oh right,” I snap, arms flying, “Because God forbid we interrupt the sacred flow of underpaid chaos to help a guy with literally no goddamn idea who he is.”
He stops, sighs, and gives me the look. The one doctors use when they think you’re being emotional. As if compassion is a malfunction.
“This isn’t about feelings, Carol. It’s about resources.”
I laugh—one of those ugly, bitter little laughs that sounds like someone dropped a scalpel on a tile floor.
“No, it’s about how you don’t give a single shit unless there’s a billable procedure and a room number on it.”
Wyle doesn’t argue. He just turns and walks away like the fucking conversation’s over.
And just like that, it is.
Discharge confirmed. Crash is officially on the hospital’s “not our problem anymore” list. No family, no phone, no name. Just his good looks, a beat-up arm in a sling, and the great, uncaring void of outside.
Un-fucking-believable.
So I do what any reasonable, emotionally stable, definitely not impulsive person does.
I go to the nearest goddamn Walmart, swipe my debit card like I’m on a mission from the universe, and come back with a bag full of soft cotton salvation: underwear, socks, gray sweatpants, a basic black hoodie, and a plain white tee. No logos, no dumb slogans. Just dignity in fabric form.
Because, you know, someone has to give a shit.
I walk into his room, toss the plastic bag onto his lap like I’m delivering a care package to a stranded soldier, and say, “Suit up, Crash.”
He blinks. “You bought me—”
“Underwear,” I say. “And socks. Because walking out of here barefoot and butt-ass naked wasn’t exactly an inspired exit strategy.”
He picks up the waistband of the sweats, eyes wide like I just handed him a golden ticket. “You didn’t have to do this.”
And he says it so soft, so damn earnest, that I want to punch something. Or hug him. Or both. The guy looks like a kicked puppy trying to thank the person who kicked him.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he repeats, like it actually means something. Like anyone else would have.
I roll my eyes so hard my brain jiggles. “Oh, shut up. What was your plan? Strut out the front doors in a hospital gown with your ass flapping in the breeze?”
He smirks, but it’s shaky. “Might’ve earned me a ride. Or an arrest.”
“Exactly,” I say, pointing at him like he’s a slow student. “Which is why I just dropped forty bucks and my last fuck on making sure you don’t freeze to death or get tossed in a holding cell for public nudity.”
He looks down at the clothes in his lap again. Like he’s not sure if he should touch them or fold them or cry into them. Jesus. This guy’s got no memory, no identity, and apparently no idea how to accept help without looking like he’s about to apologize for existing.
“Crash,” I say, softer now. “It’s just clothes.”
He nods. Swallows. Then mutters, “Thanks.”
“Don’t get sentimental on me,” I say, turning toward the door. “I’m still pissed I had to be your wardrobe department and your conscience today.”
But I catch him smiling behind me.
It’s small. That smile.
But it’s the first real crack in the fog that’s been sitting on his face since he woke up, and I’ll take it. Even if it lasts barely three seconds before reality slaps it off.
“You got any idea what you’re gonna do?” I ask, leaning against the doorway like I’ve got all the time in the world. I don’t. But for this? I’ll make some.
He sighs, drags a hand through that stupidly good hair—thick, dark, a little messy from sleep and scans and stress, and somehow still managing to look like it belongs in a cologne ad. It’s fucking rude, honestly. How does someone pull off disoriented hot like that?
“No clue,” he says. “Social worker came by this morning, gave me the standard pitch. Said I could go to a shelter for now. Then maybe hit the local PDs, try to see if anyone filed a missing person that matches my face.”
I nod slowly. “The classic ‘hope someone claims you like a stray dog’ plan.”
He gives me a crooked look. “Basically.”
I step in, toss the clipboard onto the counter, and cross my arms. “And you’re good with that?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “Don’t have a lot of options, Carol.”
The way he says my name is gentle, like he’s still tasting it. Like it’s the only thing he knows for sure.
My stomach does a weird little turn at that. Stupid. I chalk it up to skipped lunch and lingering rage at Wyle.
“You’re not some junkie we scraped off the sidewalk,” I say, louder than necessary. “You could be someone important. A lawyer, a professor, I don’t know—a fucking spy with a kill list and a burner phone. The hell you’re just gonna wander out and hope for the best.”
“I might also be a janitor with bad luck and a habit of driving into traffic.”
“You definitely don’t have janitor energy,” I say, squinting at him. “Too many abs.”
He laughs. It’s low and a little rough, but warm. “You’ve been staring at my abs?”
“Oh please,” I snort. “I changed your sheets and saw you naked, Crash. I’ve had front row seats to the gun show. And trust me, if your memory ever comes back, you’re gonna owe me dinner.”
He smirks again, that same barely-there one from earlier. But this time it lingers. “Deal.”
God help me. If he doesn’t find his people soon, I’m going to be the one getting emotionally attached—and that’s a fucking terrible idea.