She hugged the scratchy blanket around herself, as if she could use it to hide from the situation; the hospital waiting room, her own blood-soaked appearance, the police officers who were now leaned up next to a coffee vending machine, perhaps talking about her, perhaps not. She stared across from her at the metal feet of a worn plastic chair that was identical to the one she sat in, an ugly orange, bucket-seated hospital waiting room chair. She wished she were anywhere else, anywhere that would have kept the events of that night that still did not seem at all real from occurring. She turned aside again to look up at someone who came from the direction that they had taken him, but as it had been for the past thirty minutes, the person walked on by without a word.
She looked down at the paper cup with weak tea that one of the hospital staff had brought her. She had been taken aback somewhat by the kindness she had received. Maybe it was the way she appeared, ripped and bloodied dress, scraped elbows and knees, disheveled, tear-covered face. Maybe they knew already what she couldn't accept happening: that her lover had but a wisp of a chance of walking out of that hospital.
The two police officers had just finished interrogating her regarding the incident only a few minutes ago. They had been brief, and kindly so, as she had a hard time not becoming overwhelmed with emotion while recounting the sordid events of the past hour. They informed her that the entire county was on alert for Roy's truck and assured her that he would be caught and no longer a threat. But she knew that it was likely that there was no longer any threat from Roy… something in him had been destroyed the moment he had turned on them. He had never been a truly bad person before, and she doubted that he could ever truly grapple with what he had done to the both of them tonight. She didn't retain any sympathy for him, however, and she never would have a sympathetic thought towards Roy Anderson again in her life.
Still staring at the hideously garish orange chair in front of her, she let her tired mind drift back to when she had last seen Jim. After the paramedics had surrounded Jim like so many ants on a candy and seen fit that Pam was unhurt despite her blood-drenched dress, Pam pleaded to let her not leave Jim's side on the ride to the hospital. The head paramedic and the police on the scene were at first not going to budge for a number of reasons; the police, that they needed to question Pam about the altercation as she was the only readily-available witness; the paramedics, out of concern for having her in the ambulance if Jim were to crash on the way to the hospital. But when one of the officers tried to escort her away, Jim, still somewhat conscious, but becoming more and more confused, became distressed and called for her when she left his side. Reluctantly, the paramedics allowed her to stay with him if only to keep him calm.
The ride was strangely calm after the urgent bustling at the scene of the shooting; the whirring of the engine, the constant beeping of the pulse oximeter that they had clipped to Jim's hand. He was quiet on the stretcher, somewhere in between sleep and bewildered consciousness, with an oxygen mask strapped over his face, though he continued to breathe quick and shallow. She watched the IV fluid bag that had a line running into a catheter placed in his left arm, the drip going so fast that it was nearly a stream. He'd lost so much blood already; the paramedics had raced to get him hooked up to fluids, packed off the wound on his chest and on his side as firmly as possible, said that he needed surgery and blood transfusion as soon as they arrived at the hospital.
When they arrived at the entrance to the emergency room, the bustle began again – moving monitors, fluids, briefing surgeons, re-taking vitals. She knew from there she couldn't stay by him any longer. She whispered her love to him, kissed him on the cheek, and squeezed his hand one more time before they could rush him away. She heard him breathe her name back to her, almost silently, before he was carted off to be prepped for surgery.
And all that was left now was hope – hope for the expertise of the surgeons, the timeliness of a blood transfusion, for it not to have been already too little too late. She had never had much faith in medicine, but now she hung onto the knowledge of all the technology and competence that centered in a hospital, that Jim had a chance here. He had a chance.
In her trauma-dulled state, she had become lost in her reverie so that she had not noticed the two kind officers walk back to her, this time flanking a green-scrubbed, dark-skinned doctor between them.
"Miss…" the doctor began, hesitating, the shorter officer whispering her name to him again, "Ah, Miss Beesly?"
Pam turned suddenly, her heart jumped to her throat, nearly ready to leap out of her mouth, "Yes?"
"You're Mr. Halpert's wife?"
"Fiancee…" she corrected him quietly.
"I'm Dr. Patel. I have been overseeing Mr. Halpert's care. I have news for you."
Pam's eyes widened in anticipation of what she was about to hear.