An Ice Cold Grave by Charlaine Harris

What fingers?
    The next thing I knew, I was in a dim warm room, and I had the impression I was wrapped in swaddling clothes. No room at the inn? I opened my eyes. I appeared to be in a bed, and very snugly wrapped in white cotton blankets. There was a light on over my bed, but it was on low, and there was a hush that told me the night was in its small hours, its weak hours…probably about three a.m. There was an orange recliner by the bed, and it was as stretched out as it could get. Tolliver was asleep on it, wrapped in another hospital blanket. There was blood on his shirt. Mine?
    I was very thirsty.
    A nurse padded in, took my pulse, checked my temperature. She smiled when she saw I was awake and looking at her, but she didn’t speak until her tasks were complete.
    â€œCan I get you anything?” she asked in a low voice.
    â€œWater,” I said, hopefully.
    She held a straw to my lips and I took a tug or two on the cup of water. I hadn’t realized how dry my mouth was until it filled with the refreshing coldness. I was on an IV. I needed to pee.
    â€œI need to go to the bathroom,” I whispered.
    â€œOkay. You can get up, if I help you. We’ll take it real slow,” she said.
    She let down the side of the bed, and I began to swing upright. That was a real bad idea, and I held still as my head swam. She put an arm around me. Very slowly, I finished straightening. While her arm continued to support me, she spared a hand to lower the bed. I slid off slowly and carefully until my bare feet touched the chilly linoleum, and we shuffled over to the bathroom, rolling the IV along. Getting down on the toilet was tricky, but the relief that followed made the trip worthwhile.
    The nurse was right outside the partially open door, and I heard her talking to Tolliver. I was sorry he’d been wakened, but when I was on my journey back to the bed, I couldn’t help but feel glad I was looking into his face.
    I thanked the nurse, who was the reddish brown of an old penny. “You push the button if you need me,” she said.
    After she left, Tolliver got up to stand by my bedside. He hugged me with as much care as though I were stamped “Fragile.” He kissed my cheek.
    â€œI thought you’d fallen,” he said. “I had no idea anyone had hit you. I didn’t hear a thing. I thought you’d had—like maybe a flashback, from the crime scene. Or your leg had given way, or something else from the lightning.”
    Being struck by lightning is definitely an event that keeps on giving. The year before, out of the blue, I’d had an episode of tinnitus that had finally cleared up; and the only thing I’d ever been able to attribute it to was the lightning strike when I was fifteen. So it wasn’t surprising that Tolliver had blamed my old catastrophe when he’d found me on the ground.
    â€œDid you see him?” he asked, and there was guilt in his voice, which was absurd.
    â€œYes,” I said, and I wasn’t happy with the weakness of my voice. “But not clearly. He was wearing dark clothes and one of those knitted hoods. He came up out of the darkness. He hit me on the shoulder first. And before I could get out of the way, he hit me in the head.” I knew it was lucky I’d been dodging. The blow hadn’t landed squarely.
    â€œYou have a hairline fracture in your ulna,” Tolliver said. “You know, one of the bones in your lower arm. And you have a concussion. Not a severe concussion. They had to take some stitches in your scalp, so they had to shave a little of your hair. I swear it doesn’t show much,” he said when he saw the look on my face.
    I tried not to get upset about a couple of square inches of hair that would grow back. “I haven’t had a broken bone in ten years,” I said. “And then it was just a toe.” I’d been trying to cook supper for the kids, and my mom had lurched into me when I