Direct Strike. Lorelei Buckley

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      Her heart drummed. “What are you doing here?”

      “Nice to see you too, love.” Mitch approached the bed, his thick chocolate hair and rich dark eyes a jolting carbon copy of Milo. “I couldn’t get a hold of you. Finally called local hospitals and sure enough. Do you know how worried I’ve been?” He wore the denim jacket Zoey had bought him two years ago. The Coolest Dad patch Milo ironed on the shoulder cut through her sternum like the teeth of a bread knife.

      “Sorry to scare you, snookums. For your sake, let’s hope lightning doesn’t strike twice.”

      “Okay. How’re you feeling?”

      “Like shit. I’m sore and my shoulder’s on fire, but I think I’ll live.” She caught herself staring at Mitch. His tall, square frame hooked her every time. In the sixteen years she’d known him, his steady voice and arresting presence hadn’t waned. “Dr. Selden, this is my ex-husband, Mitch Hawthorne.”

      Mitch and Dr. Selden clasped palms and shook.

      “How is she?” Mitch asked.

      Dr. Selden eyed Zoey in a silent request for authorization to share data.

      “You can tell Mitch anything. We’re divorced, but he’s still my anchor.”

      Mitch placed his hand on her forehead. “She’s logical. This must be serious.”

      “Get away from me.” She distanced her head from his touch. “What if I were dying? I could have, you know, I came close. And not two seconds ago, I told you my shoulder burns. How about some sympathy or a foot massage?”

      “You want me to crack your toes, I will.” He took a step back. “But your eyes are translucent green. Not a hint of brown. You’re fine.”

      Unless someone had a mirror handy, the fact that her eyes darkened when she experienced severe pain never mattered. Her dad had noticed when she broke her foot as a girl. Mitch had noticed too when she went into labor. Her mood eyes were useless trivia no one else in the world cared about.

      Mitch addressed Dr. Selden. “Sorry, doctor. Her condition?”

      Dr. Selden glanced at Zoey and returned his attention to Mitch. “We have several tests before I can make an accurate diagnosis, but based on my observations, she’s doing rather well.”

      “And volatility?”

      “Common with lightning strike victims. Second-degree burn on her right shoulder and a bit hotheaded, not bad considering the numerous problems often associated with lightning victims. This includes death. I must admit, she has us all baffled.”

      Mitch gazed into Zoey’s pupils. “It’s the pills. You’re like a wino falling down a flight of stairs and walking away without a scratch.”

      “Fuck you, Mitch. They help me and you know it. This has nothing to do with pills.”

      Mitch faced Dr. Selden. “She’s had a difficult time dealing with our son’s death. Five physicians later, she has more drugs than a pharmacy. I’ve been trying to convince her to cut back. As you can see, it’s her Achilles’ heel.”

      Zoey’s cheeks heated. “No, you are. My supposed bad habits, my injuries, my eye color—not your business.”

      “It’s my business when you’ve had a nightmare or too much liquor. It’s my business when you take off and leave me to watch a house, a shrine like, what, it’s gonna get ransacked? No one, not even a looter, can stomach the place. It’s twisted and I don’t agree with your methods of mourning and still, here I am, making sure you’re okay.”

      “Go home, Mitch.”

      “Not until—”

      “What? You suck the last bit of energy from me? You’re a heartless vampire.”

      “You call me every night, sappy as a soap opera, and I’m the vampire? And don’t get me started on whose chest is hollow.”

      “You’re a jerk.”

      “Takes one to know one.”

      “Mr. Hawthorne.” Dr. Selden raised his voice. “I’ll have to ask you to leave. My patient needs to remain calm.”

      As much as she hissed and spit and snapped, she had no bite. The sudden shift in routine made her shaky and insecure. Tangled emotions made them childlike. But Mitch had tremendous strength, enough for both of them.

      “It’s okay,” she said. “We can be puerile, since, well, it doesn’t matter. I’d like him to stay. You said you don’t know what to expect. I’m here in town by myself. I might need help.”

      “You need help all right,” Mitch mumbled.

      Dr. Selden shook his head. “Very well. However, I’m your physician, and I recommend rest. It’s crucial. Stress harms healthy individuals, and you, Ms. Hawthorne, are in Monroe Memorial attached to an IV. You can put on the gloves when you’re discharged and not before. If you’re dissatisfied with my bedside manner or my advice, feel free to request another doctor. I warn you. If you choose to remain under my care you must be compliant. Is that clear?”

      Zoey nodded.

      A skeletal nurse breezed in the room with a nametag reading Leinfelder. She had a helmet of tight auburn curls and transparent skin. Blue veins bulged, and her uniform released a pungent mix of antiseptic and ashtray. Zoey breathed through her mouth.

      Nurse Leinfelder handed two cups to Zoey. “Bet you could use these.”

      Zoey smiled, grateful for the pain pill and large swallow of water. She crinkled the cups. Testing her aim, she raised her healthy arm to throw one at a picture of a barn on the wall.

      Nurse Leinfelder wiggled her fingers. “Give ’em here. I shouldn’t have to tell you this is a hospital, not a Dumpster.”

      “What’s with you people?” Zoey set the garbage in Nurse Leinfelder’s hungry palm. “I’m not spitting or punching or dirtying bedpans. I’m bored. What am I supposed to do?”

      “This is our lightning patient,” Dr. Selden said, as if pardoning Zoey.

      “I can appreciate the discomfort of being cooped up,” Nurse Leinfelder reasoned, “and I’ve researched the hostile nature of lightning strike victims, but there’s never a good excuse to be a litterbug. Remember that, dear.” She tossed the cups in the corner garbage can. “Watch game shows or read a book like everybody else.” The nurse rushed out in the same breezy way she’d entered.

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