The Last Hour (Thompson Sisters), Sheehan-Miles, Charles [reading an ebook .txt] 📗

“Okay. First ... your husband ... I need to make it clear up front, I don’t want to give you any false hope. He’s in very grave condition.”

Her mouth tightened, and she nodded.

“Ray suffered ... very severe injuries in the accident. Multiple compound fractures in his left arm and leg, several broken ribs, and a punctured lung. But much more serious are the head injuries.”

Carrie swallowed and said in a whisper, “Go on.”

“I’m afraid your husband suffered severe skull fractures, and part of his skull was driven into his brain. The surgical team is removing the fragments, but there’s no question he suffered very severe brain injury. Right now we don’t have any way of knowing when ... or if ... he’ll wake up. I expect he’ll be in surgery for at least ten to twelve more hours. And then we wait. His prognosis is very poor.”

Carrie began to shake, and she opened her mouth to speak, but closed it. Tears ran down her face. “Will he survive?”

“We don’t know the answer to that, yet. He isn’t breathing on his own, and we’ve had to resuscitate him several times. It’s going to be touch and go.”

Holy shit. Prognosis very poor. Very severe brain damage. What the hell? I didn’t need anybody to spell it out for me. The doctor had just told Carrie—my wife—that I was going to die, and on the off chance I didn’t, that I was going to be a vegetable.

Carrie was struggling to hold herself together. I wanted to shake the doctor, shout at him, tell him to shut up until Alex and Dylan arrived and someone was there strong enough to help her.

And it wasn’t even over yet.

“What about Sarah?” Carrie asked.

At that, Sarah, sitting in the corner, swiveled hear head and stared directly at the doctor. She’d been listening all along.

“Her prognosis is better,” the doctor said, “but she’s not out of danger. Are you familiar with compartment syndrome?”

Carrie shook her head. “What?”

“We see it a lot with severe crushing injuries. The muscles in the extremities are in ... pockets, lined with fascia. The fascia isn’t elastic, and swelling inside the compartments is extremely dangerous. Your sister’s left leg was crushed, and we had to perform an immediate fasciotomy.”

Carrie shook her head. “I don’t know what that is.”

“Basically ... we had to cut her leg open to relieve the pressure. She’ll need skin grafts, at a minimum.”

Sarah stood and walked toward us, her face intense.

“She’s not out of trouble yet, unfortunately. We’ll be observing her closely. I’ve got some paperwork for you to go over. It’s possible we’ll need to amputate.”

Carrie winced, and Sarah muttered, “Fucking hell you’ll amputate.”

“How likely is it you’ll need to do that?”

“I would rate it as not likely, but it is possible. And if it’s necessary to save her life, we may not have time to come looking for your permission.”

“I see,” Carrie responded.

“Don’t you do it,” Sarah said, her voice a low growl.

Carrie shook her head. “Our parents won’t be here for a long time. Do what you have to do ... but please ... do the best you can to save her.”

“No!” Sarah screamed. “You fucking bitch, tell him no!”

She ran forward and swung a fist at Carrie. It passed through, but I saw Carrie flinch. Immediately I reached out and grabbed Sarah around her waist and pulled her away. “No,” Sarah groaned. “I don’t care if I die. Don’t let them cut my leg off.”

“Shut up, Sarah.”

She tried to twist my hands and pull away from me, and it was all I could do to hold on to her. “Sarah, stop!”

Finally, she sagged in my arms. I turned her around and pulled her into a hug.

“You’re going to be all right, Sarah. Do you hear me? You’re going to be all right.”

I said the words, but they reminded me too much of how helpless I’d been that night when Dylan was injured. Telling him over and over again that he’d be fine, even though I knew it was a lie.

Are we doing okay? (Ray)

My mind was still foggy from the dream I’d had on the plane.

The flight had left two hours late, and once it was finally in the air, I slowly drifted to sleep, pictures of Carrie flashing through my mind. Pictures I’d committed to memory. I didn’t have to stalk her Facebook page any more, because every single one of those pictures was fresh in my mind. But, as it often did, my sleeping mind drifted off in different directions, directions I rarely wanted to consciously think about.

In the dream, I was in a valley pockmarked with small rolling hills, bumps and craters, scrub brush and grass all around. A range of rugged, stark mountains capped with snow loomed over us. Somehow I already knew. I already knew that within twenty-four hours my team would be gone. Kowalski and Roberts dead, Dylan medevaced, and me, the only survivor. The guy who was supposed to lead them and keep them alive. The worst I’d gotten was a grazing furrow down my side from a random bullet. Enough to earn a Purple Heart, I suppose, but not enough to evacuate me from hell.

In my dream, time shifted. We were back near the village, and it was a month later. Even though they were dead, Kowalski and Roberts were with me, Dylan was somewhere in the back, and the fucking new guys were nowhere to be seen. Sergeant Colton had stopped beside the road and was screaming at an eleven or twelve-year-old boy who was leading his sheep God only knows where, and it didn’t really matter, because spit was flying from Colton’s lips. Staff Sergeant Martin, our squad leader, said, “Colton, chill, he’s just a kid,” but Colton started screaming louder. Because that morning, Weber got picked off by a sniper, and we’d stuffed him in a bag. They flew him out while we continued the mission.

“You fucking threw the