“They said five minutes.” I scoot out of the booth and follow him back to ICU.
The head nurse shoots me hate beams as I walk by the station. My hand twitches with the urge to give her the finger, but before I do, Detective Maggiano grabs my arm and ushers me in the unit. Inside the door, there are separate rooms with big windows. I spot Declan’s name on the door of the first room. A nurse with what looks like a shower cap on her head gives me blue paper booties to slip over my shoes, then opens Declan’s door.
“He’s sedated,” she says. “Just step around on this side of the bed and mind the cords.”
Declan’s face is the color of putty and is round, bloated. A tube snakes up his nose. Others are stuck to the inside of his elbow. A cord, attached to a machine with glowing green digits, is taped to the back of his hand. There’s a sucking noise in the room, but nothing else. A whiteboard on the opposite wall says Kendrick. It lists mysterious numbers and times. It makes me angry. He’s not just Kendrick—he’s Declan. He’s a guy. He has a name.
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