Page 117 of Gold Rush

“He’s in bed eight.”

“Do you know how he is?” I ask as I follow the man down a hallway.

“I didn’t treat him. And I’m not a doctor. But he probably would have been transported to surgery or moved to a private room if there were a serious issue.”

I release a sigh of relief. “Okay. Thank you.”

“They need you in X-ray, Eli,” another man says, speed-walking past. “We’ve got an ambulance incoming. Need to clear that room ASAP.”

“Got it, Jim,” Elijah says quickly. To me, he adds, “Just ahead. Last bed on the left.”

I thank him, then continue that way. There are hanging curtains separating each bed, the corresponding number for each painted on the floor. Eight is last on the left, like Elijah said.

My steps slow as I near it, my stomach suddenly stuffed with nerves. What if they missed something and he’s not fine? What if he⁠—

I pass the last divider. Flynn is lying on a white hospital bed in a rumpled suit, scrolling on his phone. He glances up, eyes briefly widening before he tucks his phone away.

“Rory? What are you doing here?”

“Gideon called me.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s in Boston at a conference and couldn’t come, so he called me. What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

Flynn laughs. “Why would I call you?”

“Uh … because we’re dating?”

He continues chuckling. “Good one. Seriously, why aren’t you in Boston? Don’t you have class?”

I stare at him, horror dawning slowly. Oh my God. He thinks … his memory is …

“Oh, perfect. Are you here to pick up Mr. Parks?” Another woman wearing scrubs stops beside me, at the end of Flynn’s bed, glancing between us. “I just need to go over the concussion protocol, and then we can officially discharge him.”

“I—there’s—” I can’t even string two words together.

My medical abilities are limited to dabbing hydrogen peroxide on scratches. I don’t know anything about head injuries. Is amnesia common with concussions? Lili didn’t have any memory problems after her accident. Is this permanent? What year of law school does he think I’m—we’re—in? Panic is rising like a tide, suffocating me.

“Miss?” The doctor frowns. “Are you all right?”

“You need to examine him again,” I manage to say. “Something is wrong⁠—”

“All they had were cheese crackers.” A brunette wearing a pantsuit appears, tossing a red bag on the blanket by Flynn’s crossed feet. “You’re welcome.” She glances at me. Smiles. “Hey, you must be Rory. I’m Haley. I work with Flynn. The firm sent me over to check on him and Jay.”

She works with Flynn, and she hasn’t noticed he has no memory of her?

“I’m fine, Florence. I didn’t call you because you have your big meeting with Rachel on Tuesday afternoons. I didn’t want to interrupt in the middle of it.” Flynn grabs the crackers, ripping the bag open and popping one in his mouth. “These aren’t bad, Haley. Thanks.”

I’m as stiff as a statue, relief and anger mingling with terror.

“Those are pity crackers because you got rear-ended and were stupid enough to not be wearing a seat belt,” Haley tells him. “Don’t expect special treatment or room service at the office.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Flynn winks, then pops another cracker into his mouth.

“Really nice to meet you, Haley,” I say. “Would you mind giving us one minute?”

“Of course,” she replies, taking an immediate step back. “I should go check on Jay anyway. They’re about to release him.”