Hannah's Touch by Laura Langston Page B

the wall. “I won’t .”
    How dare Logan ask me to help the guy who had raced with him?
    I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. And I would go to the hospital and prove it.
    I didn’t want to go during visiting hours and risk running into Marie or Lexi, so I went about 10:30 the next morning.
    Hospital routines were predictable. There was always a lull after 10:00, once breakfast was over and the doctors had done their rounds. Get in, prove a point, get out. That was my plan.
    I walked in the front door like I belonged and headed straight for the elevator. Luck was on my side; nobody stopped me. Following the directions Tom’s sister had e-mailed, I got off the elevator and turned left. It wasn’t like I’d get lost. I knew the floor; I’d stayed here after my bee sting.
    When I saw the three nurses at the desk, my heart skipped a beat. I needed to get past them without being stopped. I turned my head and looked the other way. Silly, but I was playing that little kid game: if I don’t see them, they won’t see me.
    Three steps past. Then four. And five. A nurse cleared her throat. I was going to get busted. I just knew it. But I didn’t. Fifteen seconds later, I was around the corner and home free.
    Tom was halfway down the hall, in a semi-private room. I hesitated in the doorway. There was an empty space where the other bed was supposed to be. At least I didn’t have to worry about another patient complaining that I was breaking the rules. But Tom’s mom was there, sitting curled over him like a comma. I should have expected it, but I hadn’t. I must have made a sound, or maybe she sensed me, because she looked up.
    â€œYou’re Hannah Sinclair,” she said when she came to the door. We’d met at Logan’s funeral, but I hardly recognized her. The last eleven months had not been kind. Her face was heavily lined, her hair in need of a cut and color.
    â€œYes. I’m—” I’m here to see your son so he can verbally abuse me and I can prove to my dead boyfriend that he doesn’t want my help. “I thought I’d stop in and say hi. Just for a minute.”
    â€œHe’s not really up for talking,” she said. “He’s had a rough night.”
    I tried, Logan. I did.
    â€œBut if you don’t mind sitting with him, I’d appreciate a chance to grab a cup of coffee and a muffin from downstairs,” she said. “I can’t eat in front of him. The smell of food makes him sick.”
    â€œSure.” I followed her to the bed.
    She leaned down and whispered something in Tom’s ear. Then she straightened and took her purse from the back of the chair. “I won’t be long.” Her footsteps echoed out the door.
    I slid into her seat. Tom’s eyes were shut. He was on his back, still and white. Was he even breathing? Nervously I studied his chest, feeling a flutter of relief when I saw the rise and fall of the sheet. Starting to second-guess myself (what was I supposed to do now—wake him up and say Logan wanted me to give him a healing?) I glanced around the room. It was standard-issue hospital: a bathroom in the corner, a wall-mounted tv, and machines. Machines hooked up to Tom. One had a screen with a spiky green line, the other held a bag of clear fluid.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” He spoke so quietly at first I thought I’d imagined it. But when I glanced back, his eyes were open. He was staring straight at me.
    â€œI...um...” Should I tell him the truth? Should I pick up his hand? Yeah, that would so fly. “I had an errand to run. I thought I’d come in and say hi.”
    â€œDone. Now leave.” He closed his eyes again.
    I couldn’t. I’d promised his mom I’d wait until she came back.
    â€œGo,” he said.
    I bit my tongue. Be kind. The guy’s sick.
    â€œI don’t need you sitting there judging me for being a screwup. Now