Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 41: Carter

I wake up to another round of lights flashing outside the automatic doors. My neck pops as I sit upright from my slouched-back position in the waiting room chair. I glance at the time. Eight thirty-three in the morning. We've been here all night. My eyes are heavy, and I'm not sure how much sleep I actually got.

Emma's parents were called back a few hours ago, and Henry Williams stormed out about thirty minutes later. I watched him rush into the parking lot, get into his car, and take off so fast that his wheels squealed against the asphalt.

I let out a yawn and nudge Mom. She starts in her seat and groans. "Why?" she mutters as she stretches out her legs. Her neck cracks with the slightest movement to the side, and it's so loud that even the person behind the reception desk looks up. Not the same person from last night, I note.

"I'm going to see what's going on," I tell her.

"I'm going to get more coffee." When she looks at me, her eyes are glazed and bleary. "I miss youth."

"You aren't that old."

"Yeah, but I feel old when I don't sleep well, and that's the difference."

"I'll tell you a secret: teenagers are always tired."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I remember that too. I also remember having a screaming toddler to deal with." We both stand up, and her legs tremble a bit as she stretches out more kinks.

"I'll be back."

"As will I." She heads straight toward the cafeteria again. My stomach growls, and I almost call after her to bring me back something, but I'm not sure I can actually eat.

Emma is alive, that much I know, but non-family hours don't start until ten o'clock, and that's only if she's moved out of the ICU. I approach the front desk, and the lady holds up a finger with a long, painted, yellow nail. She motions me to step back and points to the sign that says: "If this is red, I'm on the phone."

I take a few steps back and look around the waiting room. More people have filed in over time, most looking bedraggled and annoyed to be here. One guy is holding a thick bandage slapped haphazardly on his arm and red copper has started to seep through. Another woman sits in the corner looking half-alive as she coughs into a tissue. A family speaks in a hushed non-English language—Spanish maybe; I should have paid more attention in class—while watching over their fussing toddler who keeps cupping his ear and letting out a low mewling noise. Every single one of these people needs help, some more than others.

Another set of EMTs comes in, rolling in a howling man. They quickly read off blood pressure and heart rates, telling the oncoming doctors what their first assessment is. There's a lot of blood between them, and the person on the gurney is pale, very pale. They head into the back with the doctors and don't come our right away, which is different from the previous times.

"Yes, how can I help you?" the woman asks from behind the counter. Her eyes are bright grass green, and it takes me a moment to realize they are contacts.

"I was checking on Emma Williams. Is she well enough to visit yet?"

"Non-family hours start—"

"I know that." The anger in my voice startles me a bit, and I put up my hands. "Sorry, I mean, will she be well enough at ten?"

The woman taps some things out on her keyboard. "Most likely. I can't tell you more than that."

I press my eyes shut, frustrated by the secrecy of our health system, especially since I was the one with her last night. "Okay," I force myself to say in an even tone. "I'll continue to wait then."