Chapter 35 - Fired

Tris's POV:

I sip my coffee slowly as I make the two-block trek from Marion Street to Dr. Ramos's house, making sure to step on each sidewalk paver, knowing it will slow me down, possibly even make me late, but basically just postponing the inevitable—Dr. Ramos is going to let me go, I just know it. I sigh, remembering my blabbering and blubbering, and incoherence, and erratic movements, and all-around bats in the belfry behavior. All that aside—because I'm sure she's used to nutjobs such as myself—the fact that I know Evey, has to be some HIPPA conflict of interest or other or something.

Maybe I can squeeze in as much as possible with this last session—summarize everything from the past week. But, what to keep and what to lose? Jesus, with everything that has happened this week, it could take me a good months-worth of chaise time to get it all out.

I shove my left hand in my pocket, feeling the crinkle of the note I had read and reread until I have every nuance of script stamped into my brain. Tris—Magnini and Proctor, LTD. 1267 W. Harvard 12:00 next Wednesday. –Bud

Flashback:

I walk back and forth in Tori's office, trying to control my breathing, and even more importantly, trying to control my suddenly errant as fuck mind. Tobias arranged…everything?! Should I be mad? Is this a betrayal? Should I be grateful? Should I be relieved? Disappointed? Happy? Confused—

"I'm right here."

I whip around, delivering my own bout of personal whiplash to see that Tobias had slipped into the room without my noticing.

"Just thought…you should know. Before you start saying really bad things about me," he says softly, shifting his weight. "You talk to yourself, a lot, so…"

I swallow the words 'No, I don't,' and instead wipe the unwelcome tears off my chin and bite my bottom lip because I'm unable to control its trembling. I walk toward the shelf unit along the back wall, pretending to be occupied while simultaneously filing away the image of him in a dark navy suit, looking at me with anticipation, slightly disheveled from his workday—a sight I'd welcome any day of the week for a lifetime.

"I didn't tell you," he begins. "I didn't want you to know. I didn't want…anyone…to know."

I turn to face him, crossing my arms and holding my head as high as is possible, even though, shrinking into myself would be preferable. I had avoided talking about Tori since Tobias's appearance this week because I had honestly thought it was fairly shitty of him to not show up for the funeral while at the same time grateful that he hadn't. Explaining that madness to Tobias would have been impossible.

"You're really good at deciding what I should and shouldn't know," I state, hypocritically, Bud's note sitting plain as day on Tori's desk—the note I have no intention of sharing.

I watch his Adam's apple move and his pupils twitch, the one thing he does that tells me I've hit a nerve of some sort.

"It wasn't about you. It was about me…not wanting…credit because, honestly, I just happened to be at the right place at the right time. I know how bad that sounds, but proximity wise, it's the truth. I was in the office when Amar literally stumbled in. He couldn't even talk…" he trails off, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I mean, I knew you'd find out eventually, but I didn't think I'd be around to see it. And, well, the last few days…I got the distinct impression you didn't want to talk about Tori anyway."

"And how do you know that?" I ask.

"Because I asked you if you wanted to talk about Tori…and you said 'no.'"

"Oh," I remark shortly, glancing up at his raised eyebrows. I only slightly remember his question, having been dizzy on wine, Robert Downey, Jr., and foot rubs. "I was…distracted." Then, I see the semi-sheepish look in his eyes. "Which is why you chose that moment."

"I wanted to ask you about it, so you knew that I cared. But, I didn't really want to talk about it," he mutters.

I can feel my face soften and I take a step toward him.

"No, stay," he orders. "Let me tell you why before you…get all…whatever." He rolls his eyes, sensing the pity I was about to show him. "It was hard because I saw people grieve…like, actually grieve. It wasn't a show—an unrecognizable body in a casket." He clears his throat, but it was a dry unnecessary distraction, not a physical reflex. Most likely a reaction to the imprint his mother's corpse left in his youthful mind. "It was real. I saw, firsthand, what functional people go through when their loved one dies. Not the here-one-minute, in-a-box the next, but the true steps—I saw the whole thing. And I felt…better." He smiles curtly and then runs his hand down his face.

Then I understand it—he's ashamed. I walk toward him even though he purses his lips and backs up a few steps. He doesn't get far though before I slide my arms under his jacket and around his torso, holding him tight, contrary to his stoicism.

"Stop feeling so damned…guilty…for how you feel," I murmur, resting my cheek on his shirt and taking a deep breath. It's not his fresh morning scent which pretty much makes me ovulate—thank God for birth control—it's the one that's original only to him. A mix of leather, pencil shavings, and a barely-there hint of his aftershave, coupled with whatever musky scent that seeps from his pores straight into the semi-wrinkled shirt. I can't believe I went without this for months…

"It's not right—me feeling that way. When so many people were devastated, I was…observing," he chuckles in self-deprecation. "Observing in…fucking wonder at the mark Tori left on people, and…loving…the possibility that my mother left that same mark. Even that mere possibility, made me feel...slightly less…broken." He groans, resting his chin on my head with a thump. Ouch.

I furrow my eyebrows and look up at him, my eyes watering at his entirely blatant and not forced admission. The female talk-it-out-til-we-die nature in me wants to point it out to him, but my knowledge of his personality overrides it—he would hate it. I kind of hate it—knowing that I had wanted him so badly to be real and forthcoming about his past. But, he hadn't been able to do it with me. It makes me wonder if my absence in his life was the catalyst.

"This is…a new face," he remarks, running his thumb down my cheek. "Dare I ask what you're thinking?"

"Just…" There's no way I can be honest with him about this yet. "Thank you. I…thank you. Not me. I'm not thanking you. But, Bud is. I only say 'not me' because Tori wasn't technically family, so…I don't really have a right to say thank you. But, Amar, Bud, George, Sue…they totally do…thank you. They do. I'm sure of it. So, thank you…on their behalf."

The back and forth motion of his eyes as he searches mine is near dizzying. So, I just put a little distance between the two of us, him grabbing my fingers, lacing them tightly. I look down at our hands and swing them back and forth slightly.

"That's a new take on what 'family' means to you," he murmurs. "Thought we had…cleared that up…once." He squeezes my fingers but doesn't look at me.

I squeeze them back, but, all I can think is how I had to reevaluate that. Caleb is my family—a constant in my life whether he likes it or not. No one else qualifies for that.

"Family," I mumble, shaking my head at Bud's note. Did Tori consider me family? I laugh at the likelihood of that, also because I know the exact shitty reason why I'm being summoned to that lawyer's office—"Ah! Oh, God," I moan, clutching my nose from the blunt force it just experienced.

"Oh, crap!" yells a faint young voice to my left. "

I open my right eye since my left doesn't seem to work and see a blurry image running toward me. "Are you okay, ma'am?! I'm so sorry!" The sound of a kid with impeccable manners—apart from the ma'am thing—rings in my ears. I grab his arm before I lose my equilibrium.

"What was that?" I groan, still holding my nose.

"Um…" He scratches the back of his head. "A football? Please, don't tell my abuelit—my grandma!"

"Uh…don't know your grandma."

"Oh, double crap!" he sighs, scrubbing at his face, making his ruddy cheeks even ruddier. "Don't tell her I told you not to tell her! Don't even tell her you saw me!" he points into Dr. Ramos's office. "And especially don't tell her I'm not wearin' a coat!"

"Ohhhhhhhh—"

"Shh!"

"Oh," I whisper in correction. "Dr. Ramos is your…grandma…" I trail off, just now noticing how handsome this little punk is—in a boyish, mischievous way.

He's kind of a scrawny kid, with ears that stick out just a little too far. His hair is a deep caramelish brown and messy, and it's painfully obvious he's going to go through an awkward stage at some point, but that he'll come out swingin' in the end.

"Yeah. But, I'm not supposed to be out front…and I'm…really…not supposed to have a football. My mom won't let me play," he says as if this is the disappointment of a lifetime.

"I happen to agree," I remark rubbing my nose, jokingly.

He smirks and kicks at the ground. "So, you won't…tell her?"

I laugh lightly at the little shit. "Tell who what?" I ask, walking past him nonchalantly.

The poor kid deflates like a relieved balloon and then smiles brightly. And, as weird as it sounds, I could swear my heart skips a beat.

"My name's Toby, by the way," he whispers in secret.

"I'm Tris," I respond, mimicking him.

"Cool name."

"Yours too."

He waves goodbye to me with a conspiring wink—he actually winked—backing away like the child version of the Pink Panther…totally lacking in stealth.

"Evey is in trooouuuuble," I mutter, thinking about how the kid's charm is only going to increase ten-fold as he gets older.

I open the door, the familiar smell of a comfortable home hitting me hard—one where people eat meals together, burn scented candles for ambiance at night, drink tea, have actual conversations, arguments, and celebrate holidays. It fucking pisses me off; but, only on account of envy. Walking the few steps to Dr. Ramos's office, I see a shadow of movement under the door to what I assume is the kitchen, and it makes me wonder if Evey is here. But, I'm quickly distracted as I hear Dr. Ramos humming in her office.

"Here goes," I breathe out taking a quick left. "Hey…there!" I sing-song like the moronic version of Mary Poppins.

"Tris," she sighs, slouching her shoulders. "I'm—"

"Okay, just…wait." I put my hands in front of me so she won't come any closer…even though she's still seated at her desk. "Am I fired? Just, tell me. I can take it." I close my eyes as the embarrassment oozes from my orifices, and all I hear is a deep exhale. "Oh, God. I am, aren't I?" I whine.

"No. You most certainly…are not. I'm actually relieved you came." She stands, walking closer to me which she never does.

My eyes flit to my painting as it stares at me over her shoulder. "You canceled on me, last Friday," I say with a more mature tone. "And, you don't seem to be the canceling type."

"I'm not." She takes my hand and encloses it in hers. "I apologize."

"Was it the Evey thing? I swear I didn't know she was your daughter. And…well, shit, even if I did…does it matter? I can sign something or—"

"No need," she interrupts, letting go of my hand and walking over to her chair. "It was just new territory for Evey and me. She had never referred patients to me before. There is a lot of gray area there."

"Oh. What kind of grey area? It's not like you two can compare notes, right? Or…can you?" I inquire, moving over to the chaise.

"Only with your permission," she says while heaving the chair toward me.

"Well, compare away because, between the two of you, you both probably know me better than I know myself…inside and out." I laugh awkwardly at my double meaning, but Dr. Ramos doesn't seem to share my jest. "Anyway, thank you for still seeing me."

"You're welcome. So, how have you been?" She seats herself in her usual pose—feet curled up to the side.

"Good," I squeak, not knowing where to start.

She appraises me, resting her cheek in her hand. "That was an…intense session last time…"

I wait for her to finish her sentence, but she almost seems at a loss. Maybe it's my turn? Yes. I'll go. "I'm…sorry?"

"That is nothing to apologize for, Tris. It seemed like a breakthrough for you."

"Yeah. You could say that," I chuckle, thinking about how my 'breakthrough' ended up leading me to Tobias's house.

The unbelievingness that still goes through my head almost every time I think about him is both exhilarating and debilitating. Although, this week it has been bordering on debilitating.

I'm suddenly distracted by that weird feeling of being cold in a very, very, warm room. I steal a glance to the right to see my painting looking at me…hauntingly as if it's challenging me to say "Look, Ramos! I painted that! It's mine, and you can't have it!" But, that doesn't feel quite right because it almost seems to belong there at the same time. It never exactly made sense why I painted it in the first place.

"Do you ever do things and have no logical reason why you do them?" I ask, moving my head back and forth, the eyes in the picture following me.

"Yes," she chuckles at my movements. "Do you?"

"I paint portraits of people without any intention of giving it to them, and I choreograph dances without any intention of showing them," I respond, equally aloof as if I'm floating above the conversation.

"Sign of an artist. You're selfish."

I turn my head at her comment, my attention returning.

"You create because you have to create. You don't do it to share with the world." Dr. Ramos looks at me seriously while I try to process that. "You don't agree?"

"Um… I guess I've never really thought about it in such a dramatic way. I mean, I dance because I'm good, and I paint or draw or whatever because I love it."

She smiles almost wryly and turns in her chair, her eyes scanning the expanse of art on her walls, landing right in the middle. For a moment, I wonder if she's going to call me out on my painting—something in her eyes tells me she knows something… I shrug it off because she's never seen any of my work, so how could she? Plus, it's so different from anything I've ever done.

"You're quite talented," she whispers, lingering on the one that seems to be her favorite—the cone.

"Can't accept that compliment because you've never seen…my stuff…"

"I certainly have."

I look at her quizzically, trying to figure out how that would be possible—"Oh! My sketchbook? That's…yeah…no. Not at my best there."

I chuckle, thinking about the entirely undetailed and incredibly haphazard drawings of nonsensical colors, wisps, whatever landscape appeared in my convoluted head to the best of my limited ability, people—I could never bring myself to draw Tobias, although his presence, spiritual and otherwise, always seemed to be there. And then, the mystery woman…but she was constantly changing—fluid and non-descript on paper.

An awkward moment seems to pass between the two of us and I can't help but feel that Dr. Ramos is either holding back a question, or trying to find the right words. Either way, it's so unlike her.

"Sooooo, Tris. How do you feel when…" She clears her throat, sitting up straighter. "When… when you aren't doing either of those…things?"

"How do I…feel…? How do I… Shittyish or shittier. No. Crappy. I feel crappy. Shitty is just too strong of a word."

She nods her head. "At our last session, you had mentioned that you revisited your work. Do you think it's something you'd like to pursue again?"

"Revisited my work," I repeat. "The letter I happened upon kind of overshadowed my purpose."

"What…was your purpose?"

"I don't know. I guess I just wanted to…make sure my art was still there—that it didn't spontaneously combust," I chuckle.

"That's very good."

"How does a contrived belief in spontaneous combustion seem good?" I inquire, catching her as she stares off for a moment.

"Oh. Um…yes. I suppose it…doesn't."

A part of me screams "Holy shit, Dr. Ramos get on your game!" But, based on my own sheer progress—100% on account of her—I decide to chalk her behavior up to a bad day. "So," I continue, taking the lead. "Can I tell you about…the letter? I need your advice on whether or not I handled it…proper—"

"Letter?" she asks in a hi-pitched voice as if she has no memory of it.

"Yeaaahhh? Busted the backing on a painting? Then came to see you and went a little off the rails?" I try to jog her memory, unbelievably so.

She sighs and adjusts herself in her seat. We make eye contact as I wait for her permission—a follow-up from our last session and her suggestion of 'getting answers.' As it stands now, I still don't have answers about why Tobias wrote it. The desire to ask him ebbed and flowed this past week, but the romantic part of me decided to keep it a secret—hide away the fact that I know something about Tobias that is intimate and raw. He had nothing to gain from writing that, it was pure truth—truth that is all mine.

"Ooookay…well, first, the picture is being rebacked. It's costing me an arm and a leg, but, worth it, considering the…context, right?"

"The context… Oh, yes. The context. The Bridge. Your experience. Yes," she fumbles. "Rebacking. Sounds like physical and emotional closure—putting a disturbing event behind you." Her robotic tone makes her sound like she's using textbook psychology on me.

"Well, that wasn't exactly my intention." I think of my own little added flair as an additional deterrent from being forthcoming with my knowledge of the letter's existence.

"Mmm hmm," she hums distractedly as if she didn't just hear a word I said and the painting itself is unimportant. Maybe she's right.

"So, in a major turn of events, the author of the supposedly hidden letter showed up on—or I showed up on—his…doorstep." I feel suddenly flushed, remembering the exact moment I saw Tobias—

"Tobias?" Dr. Ramos says in a dumbfounded way, almost worse than me.

"Yep. This face your making, was equally matched to my own. Tobias…James…Eaton in the flesh…," I trail off, the word 'flesh' sounding oddly erotic when it comes to Tobias—like how the flesh of his ass hollows as he thrusts—I shake my head before an actual groan comes out of me. Good thing…because Dr. Ramos is looking at me like I'm nuts. "Uh, sorry. Anyway, it could possibly be the weirdest story in history, but…I left here a mess, as you probably remember," I explain, gesturing to the door. "And, stumbled my way through your neighborhood, literally, stopping right in front of his house."

"Is that so?" she chokes out, clearing her throat loudly.

"It is definitely…so. The barn house on Rigby—well, it used to be a barn. It's about three blocks and around some corners that-a-way." I throw my hands haphazardly in the general direction of Tobias's house, which I have full intention of walking to after this session.

My near-daily stealth mission is starting to become an unhealthy obsession. I don't know why I feel the need to check on it. I know I'm kind of a shit for not accepting his key and plugging my ears, singing 99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall when he was telling me the garage code while also deleting his text and ripping up the piece of paper he discreetly slipped into my jeans pocket the other day. It just doesn't feel right—it's his house, not mine. But, I have no problem being sneaky and gaping quite thoroughly from the outside.

"Do you know the house?" I ask, taking note of Dr. Ramos's wide eyes, that are thoroughly freaking me out. "Should I…keep going?"

"Sure," she breathes out.

"Uh, okay…? I…kind of…don't even know where to start. Uh—can I just say that we're together and I'm stoked but still not convinced that it's real?"

"Together," she states quietly, making me second guess whether she was addressing herself or me. She seems very much in her head.

"Well, just dating…" I roll my eyes at Tobias's terrible idea which I fully embraced. "…unfortunately."

"Uh huh…"

I huff out a breath. "You think this is bad, don't you?"

She shakes her head only slightly, but it's enough to put me on the defensive.

"It's just that we want to get to know each other…again. But, geez, he already knows me really, really, well—like, one sideways glance and he's read my mind. It's infuriating…even though, I have the same talent. But…he hides things better than I do. He should have a permit for conceal-carry-of-one's emotions," I chuckle, nervously. "Anyway, so what sounded like an amazing idea has been amazing, but frustrating at the same time. Yet, a great way for me to not have to tell him…things…and for me not to hear about…things."

"Things…" She keeps trailing off like this is too much to process. Who the hell am I to judge? I'm still processing!

"Yep, things. He was in a relationship with someone when he left. It broke me. I don't want to be rebroken. And I don't want to break him which is exactly what I'd do." I throw my hands up, landing them hard on my thighs, my eyes, yet again, meeting Tobias's in the picture. I purse my lips to the point of pain and force myself to turn my head back to Dr. Ramos. "Are you feeling…okay?" I ask, based on the amount of furrowness going on in her brow. "You seem… I don't know how you seem."

"I'm…at a bit of loss," she mumbles.

"Oh." I pull at my fingers, making my knuckles pop, wishing Tobias were here to rest his hand on mine, signaling me to calm down. Then I figure out why she may be lost. "He was the reason for my sudden downward spiral. I'm sorry I never told you that. I wasn't trusting…anybody at that point. I'm sure you sensed that at the time. Right?"

"I did." She puts her feet on the floor and leans her elbows on her knees, looking at me with concern.

"When he left, I felt unreasonably abandoned and scared. We were broken up, I broke us up, so it shouldn't have affected me like that; but, it did. I hate that it drove me over the edge. I felt stupid and weak—like an overdramatic hysterical teenager. I needed him gone from my mind—thus my rock-bottom incident."

Flashback:

I wake, if I'd call this 'wake,' with a familiar feeling—as if I've been asleep for a millennium, but my mind only equates it to a decent ten seconds. Furrowing my eyebrows, I try to focus on the whiteness in front of me, but my eyelids just get heavier again. Unable to fight them, I relent, exhaling a breath in relief. I move my toes, not enjoying the restrictive feeling of tight sheets…along with the sweaty stuffy feeling of…socks… Socks? Then I hear the beeping. That noise… And the ache in my side. That ache… And it all comes back to me—a loud smack, and then suddenly the grey cover of my journal is inches from my face…until it's gone, and all I see is the 1990s gold ceiling fan and the water spots around it. I can both feel and hear a thud on my face. The sound is worse as it's coupled with the beeping. And now they're in synch, and I'm trapped entirely unable to move. My arms are tethered. I just wish I would die. I want to die… Get it over with. Just get it over with—

"What are you DOING?!" A loud, bitchy voice rings in my ear, pulling me out of the torture, even though a part of me wanted to endure it if were a means to an end. "GET OFF HER!"

"Lynn! I will handle this!"

I groan, still being mentally antagonized by the beeping, and accosted by memories. The feeling that I'm letting go of someone or something familiar. Letting go of a dream…supplementing it for a terrible reality. I try to fight it—to make the noises stop, bring back whatever feeling of peace, unwilling to face what's to come.

"No, restraints! Xavier, I mean it! MOVE!"

Enveloped. That's how I suddenly feel. And shockingly secure. I rest my forehead enjoying the slowing sound of the beeping and the all-encompassing pressure. The rocking is nice too.

"I'm not sure what's happening here, but how long until it's over?"

I lift my head, ready to acknowledge Lynn's stupid snark when I realize it was resting on someone's shoulder. I recoil slightly, not understanding what's happening as I take in my

surroundings—I'm in a hospital room.

"Tris."

I look in shock at Evey, who is now gripping me by the shoulders, right in my face. I cover my mouth, not wanting to scream out loud even though it couldn't possibly be louder than the screaming that's going on in my head. But a bolt of pain shoots right into my ribs at the sharp movement of my right arm. "Ah, ah, ah—"

"Tris, look at me. Look at me now."

I shake my head, not wanting to know what the hell happened or how the hell I got here because it's going to be terrible. "I don't want to know. I don't want to know. I don't want to know what happened. Please don't tell me. Please, please, please. I can't do it again—"

"There is no again. There is no…again. Tris, I promise. Look at me."

Some deep-seated urge forces me to look into her brown eyes. They've always seemed so familiar. As if I'd met them before… I bet I could draw them.

"You're fine. Give me your hand." She takes my limp left hand and attempts to put it on my right ribcage, but I pull it away, not needing further evidence.

"I wish…he had…just…killed me, this time—"

"Prior, we don't even know who the hell did this! And I'm sorry, what the fuck did you just say? Tell me you did not say you wished you were murdered. Evey, call psych—"

"That's enough, Lynn," Evey says in her even-toned voice, her hand lain on Lynn's shoulder.

I look left and right, the pressure of two warm bodies on either side of my bed. I feel like a book that's been on a shelf for way too long—the fear that I may fall apart if one of my bookends is removed. Evey takes my hand more securely pulling it to my ribcage, pressing the tips of my fingers down before I yank them away. But, whereas the feeling of a large protrusion of swelling, stitches, and bandages was the expected sensation, what I got was nothing but skin.

"There's inflammation from your old injury. That's the pain you feel."

I move my fingers around just to be sure. All I feel is the scar from my chesttube—an old wound that seems new again. I nod my head in partial understanding.

"Xavier, page Dr. Chavez, please."

I watch after the nurse I didn't even know was still there, as Evey urges me to lean back. I look down at the I.V. in my arm, and the little finger-clamp thing, the empty feeling of one of my bookends retreating makes me feel cold but resolved all the same because I didn't fall apart.

"What happened?" I whisper to Lynn while Evey messes with whatever is on the beeping-beeping-beeping-beeping monitor.

"Evie here—"

"Evey."

"You know who you are," Lynn quips to Evey over her shoulder. "She just gave you a hug to last a lifetime."

I glance at Evey as she sighs, taking note of the flush of her cheeks on her pale skin. "She was having a panic attack. I did what…anyone would do." She shrugs it off, plainly.

"Mmm hmmm, yeah. Okay, Nurse Checks-a-lot."

"Is she always like this?" Evey asks, the redness still in her face.

"Yes." I can't help but smirk at Evey having been here. There's something about her that signals comfort to me.

"So, anyway, where shall we start…? Ah, yes. How about when Sofi and I found you shaking like the last leaf before the Ice Age hit? Or…maybe when you were speaking in cursive? Or was it hieroglyphics? I wasn't quite sure."

I squint my eyes which does nothing but make me realize the extravagant headache that has decided to throw itself a party in my brain.

"Tris," Lynn says with a softer voice, possibly sensing my unrest, but, most likely not. "You didn't know where you were or where you'd been. You were like Lady Wolverine after taking a bullet to the brain—memory wipe. Except way-less-chill, and way-more-scary, and screechy and—"

"Hello, Tris. I'm Dr. Chavez. How are you feeling?"

"Crazy," Lynn answers for me.

"I don't know…what I…" I have absolutely no idea how to finish that sentence.

"Your roommate brought you in because you were suffering from a severe Benzodiazepine overdose."

"I—"

"Do you remember how much you took?"

"Overdose?" I ask for clarification, watching his detachment unfold right in front of me as he flips through whatever the shit is on his tablet. "I didn't…take…" I purse my lips, as it clicks. "I took two Lorazepam." The shame washes over me—not because I took two Lorazepam, but because I stole them from Lynn, and she'll never let me forget it. "But…only two—"

"According to your roommate, it was Clonazepam."

"What's—"

"It's my…new…prescription," Lynn snarks, accenting the 'ew.'

"You took four times the amount a woman of your size and stature can tolerate, in addition to the fact that you have developed no tolerance to it. You had alcohol in your system, no solids, were severely dehydrated, and based on your reaction to stimuli, quite fatigued."

"She keeps herself…real…busy these days—"

"Shut-up, Lynn," I growl, my head spinning from this information.

"Tris, you can deny visitors," Evey informs, eliciting a scowl from Lynn.

"We pumped your stomach to remove any chemical that hadn't been absorbed yet—not that there was much there—along with administering intravenous fluids to help flush out your bloodstream. We then gave you a drug to combat the effects," Dr. Something-Hispanic drones as if he were reading off a 6th-grade book report.

I rest my hand on my stomach, now feeling the fatigue of medical intrusion, and a rawness in my throat that hadn't been there before.

"You also re-aggravated an injury, and I say re-aggravated because I suspect it never quite healed. Did you complete proper physical therapy?"

"How about the doctoral community—"

"Medical."

"Lynn," I growl.

"What? Two different things, oh ignorant one."

"Mggghhh… How about the MEDICAL community not charge me 20 bucks for an Advil, and 12 grand for a quick jaunt in the back of the Devil's cart, and then maybe we can talk physical therapy," I comment like the bitch I am.

"And…she's back."

I shoot Lynn a look, Evey's smirk nothing but an encouragement.

He reaches for the back of my dressing gown, just about throwing Lynn off the bed as I recoil from his graceless presence, looking to Evey for help. Ugh…help. I hate it. She nods in a let-him-do-his-job fashion.

"Sit up straight," he orders as I reluctantly do what I'm told, his probing fingers and emotionless stare sucking the life out of my pride. "Serious swelling and bruising."

"How?" I ask to no one in particular.

"My expertise doesn't reach into the personal realm. Now, you'll need to stay overnight—"

"Hell, no."

"Let me be clear," he continues as if he were expecting my response. "You had lost nearly all motor function. You suffered from severe respiratory depression and your blood pressure dropped to near-fatally low levels. In rare cases overdosing on Clonazepam will lead to coma and possibly death. The chances of this are increased if combined with another downer such as alcohol which, as I had mentioned, we found in your system. That was you…only hours ago. So, as I said, you'll need to stay overnight, Tris." He closes out of whatever is on his tablet. "Evey, Tris, whoever-you-are," he nods his head at each of us and exits the room, leaving me feeling like a brainless idiot.

I moan, numbers flashing in my mind—numbers preceded by dollar signs. "I am…so screwed," I say to myself. "And isn't he just a bundle of joy."

"He's an ER doctor," Evey reminds me. "It's not in his job description."

I feel Lynn's glare from the chair she has made herself comfortable in. "What?! I didn't mean to take it! I thought it was just Lorazepam."

"That you took with alcohol," she deadpans. "And I'm sure you were drinking on the job before you got home."

"It works…faster," I grit out, giving Evey the side-eye, knowing my defense of benzo usage will not be tolerated by her. "And anyway, I'm sure what you're really pissed about was that I stole from your stash."

"Nope. Plenty more where that came from, especially since I am a non-abuser and have a legitimate prescription."

"I'm…not…an abuser—"

"Where the fuck did you go anyway last night? Wherever it was, must have been stupid.".

"What do you mean? I came home and went to bed!"

"Sof and I found you curled up in your everyday unnecessary active wear—seriously time to rethink your wardrobe—shivering and clawing at yourself like a drowning cat. And you were freezing, like you had just been outside," Lynn informs suddenly just as confused as me.

"Mental confusion is comorbid with a Clonazepam OD."

"Huh?" Lynn and I both say at the same time.

"Comorbid means they go hand-in-hand. Symptoms of amnesia are common—not remembering your name or how you got to the location you're at. Also, fear and aggression."

"Nailed it, Avery."

"Evey—"

"Oh, yeah…and your purse was emptied—emptied-emptied."

"I was…mugged?" I groan again, my stupid rib-cage lighting on fire. "Was I…assaulted?" I whisper under my breath.

"It's possible. Probable in my opinion, especially if you fought back—"

"Which you know you did," Lynn interjects. "But…could have been a lot worse…idiot."

I nod my head, knowing she's right as I acknowledge the all-too-familiar feeling of the unknown—the emptiness and confusion brought on by the knowledge of ignorance. The word 'inconclusive' flashes in my head like a neon sign.

"Hey, let's upside this shit. At least, now maybe you can upgrade your phone. Or Santiago can just get you a burner."

"My phone?"

"Ummm…yeah. When I said your purse was emptied-emptied, I meant it."

My heart clenches. I hadn't backed up my phone in ages, and my Cloud storage was full.

Every picture—gone. Every screenshot taken of texts that I couldn't bear to be deleted forever—gone. There weren't many of either—only the ones I deemed forever memorable, hoping that someday I could look back on them and smile with a fond remember-when awareness. But they're gone—more of Tobias…just gone.

"You…remember that…little incident?" I ask timidly. Yuck. Timid sucks.

Dr. Ramos nods slowly.

"Well, it made me think about him even more, ya know, considering his mother and all… God, if he ever found out…" I shake my head, pulling at my fingers again. "I thought about him, Tobias, a lot when I was in the hospital, even though he was with someone else… I was pretty pathetic," I admit. "I wanted to think he still cared about me…a little. And I kept thinking that if I had died, he would have had to live with the knowledge that two of the women who loved him left him in the same way. I know it didn't make sense at the time because technically I had already left him, but…the finality of death, ya know? Death in that way…"

Dr. Ramos's face pales at the mention of death, and I realize I had never given her enough details to know that I could have died.

"Sorry," I mumble, hoping she understands why I'm apologizing. "I'm almost afraid it would be a deal breaker if he found out now. He is so, not past his mother's death. Not that he should get past it. There's just a lot of…unresolved stuff. Or maybe not. Hell, he may have gotten all that shit figured out in California, no thanks to me. Or…thanks to me, I guess." I sniff, realizing my emotions are about to get the better of me. "You see, the thing is…I would have been okay with dying…just like her," I say, the last few words hushed to a whisper.

I wipe under my eyes and grab a tissue from the box on the end table. Looking up, I hear shuffling at Dr. Ramos's desk, and see that she had gotten up from her chair.

"Tris, I…have to go," she says in a thick voice as if she were trying to talk and breathe through her mouth at the same time.

I glance at her clock and see that it's barely been fifteen minutes. "Did I get the time wrong?" I inquire, watching her riffle through random papers.

"No, no," she quips in a sing-songy voice. "I…double-booked. I need to be…at a, um, a house call. I have to…go. I need to go do a house call. It's an emergency."

"An emergency you knew about?"

"It just came up." She smiles slightly, with glossy eyes.

"But, you said you double-booked."

She takes a deep breath, exhaling with an open mouth. "I need to go."

I am…definitely fired.

AN: Shorter chapter because I got carried away on the next one! If you're on Facebook, you can find me at /nitewriter4 or search Kris Daniels. There's a private page and a public page. I apologize to everyone who isn't on FB. But, a tip I gave such a reader the other day who didn't want to open an acct because she didn't want to deal with all the friend requests: No one says you have to use your real name. Open an account and just friend my page and be done with it. Or not. No pressure!

Thank you for reading!