I knew I wasn't crazy. I'd never been crazy, so why would I start now? But there was no other way to explain away what I'd seen.
They wheeled me away X-ray my head. I told them there was nothing wrong, and I was right. Not even a concussion. I asked if I could leave, but the nurse said I had to talk to a doctor first. So I was trapped in the ER, waiting, harassed by Tyler's constant apologies for almost smashing me, and his promises to make it up. No matter how many times I tried to convince him I was fine, he continued to torment himself. Finally, I closed my eyes and ignored him. He kept up a remorseful mumbling that I tried to ignore.
"Is she sleeping?" a voice straight out of a musical asked. My eyes flew open.
Fredward was standing at the foot of my bed, smirking. I glared at him. It wasn't easy—it would have been more natural to ogle.
"Hey, Fredward, I'm really sorry—" Tyler began to blubber.
Fredward, full of grace, lifted his hand to stop him.
"No blood, no foul," he said, flashing his perfectly even and beautiful teeth. He moved to sit on the edge of Tyler's bed, facing me. He smirked that crooked smirk of his, again.
"So, what's the verdict?" he asked me.
God, what isn't the verdict? "There's nothing wrong with me at all, but they won't let me go," I complained. "How come you aren't strapped to a gurney like the rest of us?"
"It's all about who you know," he answered, crossing himself.87 "But don't worry about that, I came to spring you."
Then a doctor walked around the corner, and my mouth fell open. He was young, he was blond, and he was handsomer than any movie star I'd ever seen. He was pale,
87. Fredward is evidently of the Roman-Catholic faith.