Miss Amanda?"
I pushed aside the heavy shroud of my exhaustion and looked up, squinting against the glare of the hospital's overhead lights. Standing at the curb was a figure that looked like he'd stepped out of a different century. He wore a crisp, old-fashioned chauffeur's uniform, complete with a structured hat and white gloves blindingly bright against the gray pavement. Beside him sat a car in an understated, liquid-silver hue, but the sheer elegance of its silhouette screamed wealth. It was a limousine, not the gaudy, stretched kind you see at proms, but a sleek, high end model almost like a private vault on wheels.
Oh, really? I thought, my brow furrowing. This was way beyond the scope of a standard medical referral.
"I'm Amanda McCann," I said, my voice cautious and thin. I didn't move from my pillar, anchoring myself to the solid concrete.
The driver didn't offer a smile or a business card. He simply moved with a practiced, fluid motion and opened the rear passenger door. "Please, enter."
I gaped at him for several seconds, my mouth hanging open slightly. I mean, a limo? I didn't know what I had expected when the man on the phone mentioned a car, maybe a beat up yellow cab or a modest hospital shuttle, but certainly not this. The sheer opulence of it, parked right under the "Emergency" sign, felt surreal. It was more than just bizarre; it was, I decided, more than a little creepy.
"How do I know you're not trying to kidnap me?" I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest. The movement made my ribs ache, a sharp reminder of the "terrifying double digits" on my medical chart.
"I must admit, Ms. Amanda, that this is often a fear of our patients," the chauffeur said evenly. His voice was as smooth and impersonal as the car's paint job.
I waited for him to continue, to offer some reassurance, a badge, or even a brochure for whatever "clinic" this was. But he simply stood there, waiting impassively, a silent sentinel in the cold.
I shifted my weight, my legs trembling again. From where I stood, I could see a glimpse of the interior: a soft, inviting glow that promised a reprieve from the biting Cleveland wind. My whole body clamored for a chance to sink into that warmth, to let the shivering stop.
What if he is a kidnapper? I wondered, the dark thoughts swirling. What was the worst that could happen? I could be brutally mutilated and murdered, I suppose. Torture would be horrific, but my death was coming soon anyway. I was already a ghost in training; what did I have to lose besides a few months of morphine and hospital food?
On the other hand, there was the best case scenario: a cure. I barely let the word breathe in my mind for the tiniest instant before slamming the door on it. I'd already had my hopes shredded once today; I didn't have the emotional bandwidth to build new ones just to watch them burn.
I looked at the car and its driver again. He didn't look like a serial killer, and as weird as the situation was, the number had come directly from Dr. Robertson. She was clinical, but she wasn't a murderer.
Still....
"Oh, to hell with it," I muttered. I pulled my phone out with shaking fingers and sent a quick, frantic text to Elisa: The last # I called was 202-0024-6475 n they sent a driver to hospital to pick me up. Will text or call in 2 hrs. It was a breadcrumb trail, just in case. Before she could reply, I turned off the ringer and alerts. I saw her first text notification pop up likely a flurry of question marks, but I shoved the phone deep into my pocket. I took one last deep, freezing breath of the hospital air, squared my shoulders, and climbed into the car.
The chauffeur closed the door with a muted sounding thud, sealing out the noise of the world. I struggled out of my heavy jacket, my movements clumsy in the confined space. The interior was a sanctuary of fawn colored leather and polished burled wood, with wide, plush seats contoured perfectly for comfort. A dark screen was mounted into the headrest in front of me, reflecting my pale, gaunt face.
I shoved my coat down at my feet and leaned back. Almost instantly, the warmth of the heated seat began to creep through my clothes and into my aching bones, cradling my wasted frame. I hadn't realized the sheer depth of my physical pain until the car began to soothe it away. For the first time in months, I felt supported. As the black limo pulled away from the curb, I let my head fall back against the chair and closed my eyes, leaving the hospital and my old life behind in the rearview mirror.