Page 51 of If Cain Were Able

“The man’s been shot, for fuck’s sake. Do you really think now is the time for jokes?” I fire.

The man ignores me, checks his watch, and nods to the nurse on the other side of Cain’s bed.

“Alright, Cain, when I say so, I want you to exhale a deep breath, but instead of pushing from your stomach, like you normally would for this, I need you to really think about using your lungs. That bastard got you in the stomach, too, and I don’t want you popping any sutures.”

Cain nods, seemingly understanding.

“Okay, then, on the count of three. One. Two. Three,” he counts, and they start pulling while Cain chokes and sputters and gags.

The sound is truly awful.

Cain opens his mouth to speak, but this nurse or doctor or PA or whoever he is throws a finger against Cain’s lips.

“Don’t even think about it. I need you to breathe for five minutes on your own. Try taking small sips of water, and then you may try talking.”

Cain rolls his eyes but nods.

He winces as he swallows the water, but he doesn’t choke, which is a good sign.

Seemingly satisfied, the man in scrubs nods and says, “Short phrases only. Do not elevate your heart rate. I’m going to go let your surgeon know you’re awake.”

“Who?” Cain whispers, but the man just smirks over his shoulder, understanding something I don’t.

Once the room clears out, Cain finally affixes his bloodshot eyes on me.

“You came,” he rasps.

“Of course, I came. They said I was listed as your emergency contact,” I say, treading carefully, not wanting to spook him with feelings.

“Added one…in the…nick of time,” he works to get the words out.

“I want to bring that man back to life so I can strangle him myself,” I admit.

“Was grieving,” Cain says, brushing away the fact that he was shot multiple times. Then I realize he may not know what happened.

“Who did my surgery?” he asks.

“That’s what you’re concerned about?” When he addressed the man in scrubs, I thought he’d been asking who shot him, not who operated on him.

“Who?” he asks again.

“Dr. Porter.”

A smile tilts one corner of his mouth.

“That son of a bitch…will never let me…live this down.”

“Did someone say ‘son of a bitch?’ You wouldn’t be talking about me, the man who saved your life, now would you?” Dr. Porter asks, coming into the room, rubbing sanitizer into his hands from the dispenser on the wall.

“Oh, here we go,” Cain whispers as his surgeon comes to stand next to his bed, pulling Cain’s sheets down to assess his body.

“You gave me quite a scare, Cain. I had to work hard for every cent of that astronomical bill you’re going to get.”

Cain gives the man a full smile and whispers, “Thank you.”

Dr. Porter nods and then changes the subject.

“How are you feeling?”