Total pages in book: 41
Estimated words: 38284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 38284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 191(@200wpm)___ 153(@250wpm)___ 128(@300wpm)
“Oh my God, Dad. What’s going on? Who is he?” I screeched, looking at the broken man my father dragged in behind him.
“Help me get him inside and into bed one.” We had two beds in our clinic, but for Dad to bring the man here instead of the hospital concerned me more. It was clear that he needed serious medical care as soon as humanly possible. “He’s injured bad, but I couldn’t leave him in the ocean.” The man was wearing khakis. What the hell was he doing in the ocean? Unless—
“This wasn’t an accident. Cartels?”
He sighed, “Yes. And I need your help.”
I nodded and assisted him into the clinic area. The offices were closed for the next two weeks, so we wouldn’t be disturbed and hopefully could treat him properly.
We hated the cartels more than most people because we lost my brother to them. He died of a meth overdose. It crushed our family, and my mother struggled with his death to the point she had a heart attack and died last year, angering my father to no end.
“Whoever he is, we need to make sure he’s not another one of their victims.”
We set him on the bed, and then I went to grab my medical kits. I didn’t have everything I needed here, but we could make do. I used my scissors to cut off his clothes. We didn’t want to jostle him more than he’d already been. I made a mental list of all his injuries as my dad set up a drip and the heart monitor machine for him. Listening to his chest, I could hear some fluid in his lungs, but overall they were better than expected. The large expanse of his chest was marred with bruises, and from my minor palpitations I could see that his ribs were broken.
Every inch of his body had bruises. When I got to his groin, I did my best to act like a professional, but today my body disagreed with my head. When I looked at him, I didn’t see a patient; I saw something more. A tear fell from my eye as I patched up his wounds.
“Grace, I’m sorry, baby. He’s going to be okay. I think we got to him in time. You need to get some rest.”
“I will, once I know I’ve done all I can.”
“Fine. I need to go back and make sure there’s no sign of him on my boat. I won’t be long.” My father assisted me as we patched up the lacerations and wrapped his ribs so they could heal. I hoped he slept long enough to let his body recover.
I watched over him after spending three hours tending to his wounds. He’d really been beaten and left for dead. If my father hadn’t been in the right spot at the right time, this man would be dead. Something about that breaks my heart. As a doctor, I needed to keep my emotions in check, but his face distracted me even with the bruising.
I slipped my stethoscope into my ears and listened to his heart. It was steady and normal, which was a fantastic sign. Over his heart, he had a tattoo that caught my attention. I brushed my hand over it and he groaned. His eyes opened and glassily looked into mine.
“Angel,” he coughed out before closing his hand over mine as he passed out again.
“Even a man on the edge of death thinks you are beautiful,” my dad said, standing in the doorway.
I smiled and turned back to my patient before adding with a soft laugh, “Dad, you’re biased.”
“You got me, but it doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He walked over to my side and checked the readings on our mystery patient.
“Dad. I doubt it,” I uttered, followed by a long, drawn-out yawn.
“I’ll watch over him. You need sleep.” I wasn’t even going to argue that one. I was minutes from falling asleep with my head on the edge of the bed.
“How did it go?” I muttered as I stood up and let out another yawn.
“No one noticed anything.”
“Good.” I gave my father a brief hug, and then reluctantly I walked away from the stranger’s bedside and to my room. I needed a lot of sleep.
Two days later, there was no change in the man, but we were in for one hell of a surprise as we watched the news before I had to leave for my next double shift.
“You need to see this,” I told my father.
“Hello, this is Sandy Sandoval. We’re here at the Federal building in Houston where we learned one of their own went missing yesterday, and rumors are that he’s been killed. Here comes the Director of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms.”
Everyone quieted down as the man released a sigh, standing next to a large picture of the man in our home.