THE BROKEN WOLVES

Saige’s [POV]

“Bradley, would it kill you to eat something other than hotdogs for lunch and dinner?”

I’ve just set down the white plastic cover for my dinner on the bedside table when the familiar voice makes me freeze.

The cops.Shit.

My gaze darts to the tray in my lap placed there moments before by Nurse Amy.

Earlier in the morning, she helped me up so I could use the bathroom and the second my legs gave way under me, I realized running wasn’t going to be in my near future. If she hadn’t been there, I’d have been face down on the floor with no idea how to get back up again.

So, while I have no leg injuries, not moving for a week has made me feel as if I do.

Not only did she help me into the bathroom, she also got rid of the beeping machine. I still have the morphine drip needle stuck in the back of my hand, which isn’t a problem, but the cops are going to notice the beeping machine is no longer here, and they’ll know my condition has changed enough for them to stick around.

“They have ketchup on them, and everyone knows ketchup is a fruit.”

The footsteps move closer, and panic grips my heart. No one at the hospital has pushed to know my name or what happened on the bridge yet, but those are questions I can’t dodge from the cops.

“One squirt of ketchup does not—”

“Officers,” Dr. Trevor’s calm voice interrupts. “Back again, I see. Is there anything I can help you with?”

The footsteps stop and I breathe again. I start eyeing the distance between me and the window. My ribs still hurt, I’m almost positive I’m on at least the fifth floor since my only view is of tall buildings in the distance, and I still have the needle attached to the back of my hand that I’m going to have to yank out.

Still, none of that stops me from moving the tray to the side table as quietly as I can.

The steps move closer. “Doctor, just stopping by on the off chance she’s awake.”

I freeze. Shit, they’re just outside. What do I do? Throw the tray? Hide under the bed?

“I’m sorry, who?”

What?

“The Jane Doe from the Bridge.”

A long pause. “Um… give me a second…” Paper rustles and I hold my breath as it does.

Surely doctors don’t just forget their patients like that. And especially not this one who's already stopped by to increase my pain meds after the nurse left a message about me not eating because I was in too much pain.

“Oh, yes. The Jane Doe from the Bridge. Sorry, it’s been a long day. These twelve-hour shifts are a killer,” he says.

One cop chuckles. “Yeah, being a cop is no easy ride, either. So, the girl…” When a heavy tread moves in my direction, I remember the tray in my hand and resume getting rid of it.

“We’ve sent her to the neurologist for a brain scan.”

I forget about my tray and stare at my closed door.

He was just in here, and he said nothing about a neurologist.

Why is he lying to the cops for me?

“A neurologist. Sounds serious.”

“It can be. But a crash like that can do damage only a scan can reveal.”

“Any idea when you’ll know more?”

They believe him.

Of course, they believe him, Saige. He’s a doctor. What cop is going to think a doctor would lie to them?

“In a couple of days. You’re welcome to stop by again. Or if you have a card that I…”

Footsteps move away. “Oh, we’ll be back. A couple of days, you said?”

“A couple of days,” Dr. Trevor echoes. “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation about hotdogs. You must be talking about the Geller stand on Fifth, right? They have the best in town.”

“See, Ferdinand, I told you Gellers was the best. I’ve been trying to tell him that…” The voices move away from my room and I stare at the door, confused about what the hell just happened.

When I can’t hear them anymore, I still don’t move. I should make a run for it now, but Dr. Trevor has just bought me two days of recovery time, time I desperately need.

He’ll be back once he’s gotten rid of the cops, and I have a question for him, one that will eat me alive if I don’t ask it.

“You didn’t tell them I was awake,” I speak with my gaze on the plastic tray in front of me, much as I have since Dr. Trevor knocked on my door and entered my room minutes before.

The bread roll, the soup, and the small container of yogurt are easy enough to identify. The brown stew-like substance on the plate is less so.

“I grew up in New Jersey. Did my internship at a hospital in Atlantic City.”

I dart a surprised glance at him because I don’t see how where he grew up is in any way relevant to this conversation.

With his back against the wall beside the window and his arms folded over his chest, he looks relaxed. At ease. “In New Jersey, you have the Atlantic City Marina District. Have you ever been?”

I shake my head no.

He continues in that same casual tone. “Do you know how many people were pulled from it and brought to our hospital in an average week?”

Again, I shake my head no.

“Ten. Sometimes twenty, if it was a holiday.” He shakes his head with a wry smile. “Give people booze and time off work, suddenly they think they can swim even if they’ve never swum a day in their lives. I’ve been a resident here for five years. Do you know how many people paramedics bring in after they drive off the Lancaster Bridge in an average week?”

I understand where he’s going with this. I shake my head again.

“One. And it’s never by accident.”

My gaze returns to my plate. I pick at the brown stew and try to figure out whether it’s chicken, fish, pork, or something else.

“The malnutrition, and scars on your back, neck, and wrists tell me that you had a hard life.”

I tuck my left wrist under the sheet. The scar is mostly covered by a bandage that goes up almost to my forearm, but the need to hide it is automatic. I don’t think. I just do.

“The scar on your right wrist… that’s a little harder to identify. But I’d guess it was from a handcuff or some kind of restraint rubbing against bone over an extended period. Am I close?”

I don’t say a word.

After a moment, he continues in that same calm, unflappable tone. “So you might have a good reason to want to drive into the river, maybe a better one than I’ve seen from anyone who’s come in before. Especially if you were with someone who wasn’t a friend. But that doesn’t mean I agree with it. There are always other options. We have a great social worker here—a psychiatrist too. Maria. She’s also a friend who, I know from personal experience, is a great listener. I can send her up anytime you want.”

I’d love to know what he thought about those options if I told him there were wolf shifters in the world and once they’ve made up their mind to keep you, there’s only one way to escape them. And the therapist? She’d take one look at the wolf in Rylan’s eyes and run.

“You asked me why I didn’t tell the officers you were awake,” he says.

My head rises because I want to know why. He should be on their side, not mine.

His expression is impossible to read, but I’m almost positive there’s a hint of old pain creeping into his eyes. “Not all people in this world are good people. Regardless of what their jobs are or their title. You can find bad ones everywhere.”

Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

“Even cops?” I hold my breath as I wait for his response.

He straightens from his lean.

I flinch back into my bed, just holding onto my fork before it can go the way my remote went the night before.

He stops moving. “Even cops. Doctors aren’t immune, either,” he says, his voice soft. “Salisbury steak.”

I blink. “What?”

He nods at my plate. “No one ever knows what it is because the chef always cooks it too long. But it’s Salisbury steak, and you’ll find mashed potatoes buried beneath it if you feel like going hunting for it. Looks terrible, but it’s not bad.”

And with that, he turns and heads for the door. At the entryway, he pauses his back to me. “But there are some good ones, too.”

He isn’t talking about the meal.

As he steps out, pulling the door closed behind him I stare after him, and try to work out which one this doctor is. The good kind or the bad.

I worry at the question until my stomach grumbles, reminding me I’ve gone far too long without a decent meal in my belly, and then I lower my head.

As he said, there’s a small pile of mashed potatoes buried under the gravy. I spoon up some of the meat and gravy and slip it into my mouth.

The steak is so soft I don’t even have to chew, and the gravy is a little salty, but it’s not bad, so I scoop another mouthful and then another, not stopping until my plate is empty.