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The goon, clearly not expecting to be assaulted by footwear, loosens his grip on the cage.
My protective instincts kick into overdrive.
“Stay away from my wife!” I bellow as my fist connects with his face in a satisfying crunch.
He staggers, releasing the cage entirely. But Maggie, in full-on tug-of-war mode, suddenly finds herself with no resistance. She flies backward, still with a death grip on Otto’s cage, losing her balance.
“Maggie!” I yell, reaching for her just as a doll comes flying out of nowhere and whomps me on the forehead. I can already feel the blood dripping down my face when I see Maggie tripping over a pile of broken crates.
She goes down.
Maggie blinks rapidly, her eyes unfocused. She’s sprawled on her back, one leg hooked over a broken crate, the other bent at an awkward angle. Her hair is a mess, sticking up in all directions like she just stuck her finger in an electrical socket.
I finally reach her, kneeling down beside her. “Maggie, are you okay?”
She looks up at me, her expression dazed and confused. A slow, loopy grin spreads across her face.
“Heyyy, Sawyer,” she slurs, “when did you get a twin?”
Oh boy. She's definitely not okay.
“Maggie, focus. How many fingers am I holding up?” I ask, waving three fingers in front of her face.
She squints at my hand then giggles. “All of them?”
Great. Just great.
Her eyes suddenly widen comically, and she gasps. “Sawyer! You’re bleeding!”
I’d forgotten about the cut on my forehead.
“Sawyer?” she says, her voice suddenly small.
“Yeah?”
“I think I’m gonna…” Her eyes roll back, and she goes limp.
“Maggie? Maggie!” I pat her cheek gently, but she’s out cold.
"Marriage is like a walk in the park. Jurassic Park."
— ANONYMOUS
27
MAGGIE
Ivaguely remember the car ride back to Siobhan’s house. All I know is that Sawyer didn’t bother with a seatbelt and just cradled me like a baby.
This whole night has been a weird dream—mobsters, Russian toys…hockey players.
I blink groggily, trying to focus on the doctor’s face as he packs up his bag. He must be a mob doctor—the way he can take a house call at a moment’s notice. One of the perks of the O’Malley family, I guess.
My head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton, and my ankle throbs dully beneath an ice pack. Sawyer hovers nearby, his brow furrowed with worry.
“She’ll be fine other than a twisted ankle,” the doctor reassures him. “No concussion. Just a mild case of vasovagal syncope. It’s a common reaction to stress or—in her case—the sight of blood. Keep her hydrated and elevate that ankle.”
I groan, remembering the embarrassing moment I fainted at the sight of Sawyer’s blood.
