Emergency Medical Dad

II: 4:45 AM, present

    The pipes groan again, a drop of water falling from the faucet.

    My ears start to ring, splitting my head and making my skull ache.

    I step away from the door, backing up against the far counter and ducking down behind it.

    The door shakes, a flash of metal showing through on my side. The house creaks, something slides through the lock and clicks.

    I back further behind the counter.

    The door falls open, the looming figure now on the inside. It's too big to be human, nearly ducking under the doorway.

    I scramble further behind the island, no longer able to see the figure.

    The floor squeaks under silent footsteps and I can feel my heart in my throat. My hands shake around the knife, making it hard to grip.

    The movement stops.

    The pipe drips again.

    I press my back into the cabinets.

    I'm going to get killed.

    In a flash of motion I see a hand fly out and hit the lights and then the mass is in front of me, holding out its arms to stop me from attacking.

    Its eyes are dark, flicking over my body as if evaluating my danger. I don't pose much to it, I'm tiny, slow, only armed with a gross knife.

    "Jessie Kingston?"

    Its voice is harsh, deep, haunting, almost like it's bouncing around within a cavern instead of addressing me in a dimly lit kitchen.

    I drop the knife and scramble backward, socks slipping on the tile.

    "Wait, wait, Jess, it's Jorgen, you know me, it's Jorgen, from high school," he pulls his hat off from over his eyes and I stop moving, back against a table leg. "I didn't mean to scare you, I'm sorry."

    I keep quiet, staring at him.

    Jorgen. As in Jorgen Hadley.

    He's at least a half foot taller than the last time I saw him, his shoulders broader, body filled out with age, his cheeks aren't sallow and pale, his under-eyes are still dark but don't reek sickness. The tone of his shoulders is eerie from its familiarity, the ache of his voice still serving its control seven years later.

    I'm shaking, breathing too shallow, all of it. I don't know why.

    He crouches down, heavy boots stable against the floor that didn't allow me any traction just seconds ago. The boots are tied up past his ankle, tightly wound with laces looped around the tops once. They're well worn, tread soft around the corners but still holding firm on the tile.

    "Hey, you're alright, you're good, I got you pretty bad, I know," he reaches out a hand and when I don't move, holds it gently right in front of my mouth and nose. He retracts, standing up again.

    I can't seem to move or speak, just stare and try miserably hard to slow down my breathing. My mind is racing, reeling with the adrenaline rush of his arrival and trying to scumble my reaction to seeing him again.

    He presents me with the same cup of water I had moments ago, "drink. Slowly. Take a deep breath between each sip."

    I watch him closely, lifting it up to my lips.

    Sip.

    Breathe.

    Sip.

    Breathe.

    "Good," he comments, "are you feeling alright? Lightheaded? Anything?"

    I shake my head.

    "Good, good," he stands again, leaning over and turning on some of the rest of the lights.

    There's an alarm going off upstairs and Jorgen, as smooth as silk, lifts himself up to sitting on one of the counters. I stay against the table leg, unsure of my shaky ability to stand, wanting to keep sipping water and ignoring that that is Jorgen Hadley.

    It can't be. There's no possible way it is. They didn't tell me much about him, telling me they'd make him explain the details.

    There's no way that the stick-thin half-drugged guy I knew in high school is the one now sitting on the counter in front of me. No way that he's the one that got kicked out of St. B's. No way he's that guy.

    He's watching me, evaluating, calculating. His eyes are still dark with heavy eyelashes, but instead of being dull, they're sharp, scary, almost.

    "Morning?" Kazian sticks his head downstairs, exhausted, clearly, but confused, "why are you on the floor?"

    I point at the counter.

    "Jorgen!" Kaz leaps at Jorgen and smacks his back before grabbing his head and giving him a good shake.

    "Hi Kaz," he shoves his friend, slipping off the counter.

    "How's the peg leg holding up?"

    Jorgen shrugs, "you know, about as good as it can." His eyes flick back to me, concerned but curious.

    "Listen, buddy, Pitty's got this nasty ingrown toen-"

    Jorgen smacks the back of Kaz's head, "I'm not here to play frontier nurse."

    "C'mon man, it's gross, you like gross stuff."

    Jorgen gives him what I read as a joking glare, head knocked back in disbelief, "fine, fine, I'll give it a look."

    I stand up off the floor, loosening up my arms and taking my empty water container back to the sink. My knees are weak and loosely uncomfortable but I force myself through it. Do now, process later.

    It's too early in the morning for this. I thought I was going to meet Jorgen a month or so from now, when I have more time, when I'm not as stressed out, when I'm better rested, when Connor's out of school. I didn't think that the end of the NHL season was this soon.

    Or, I didn't comprehend that he works with that schedule. I didn't put that together.

    And now he's here.

***

i felt like I should keep up the tradition of having none of the chapter numbers the same book to book so this one is roman numerals. anyway meet Jessie.

also fun fact wattpad says 'jorgen' is spelled wrong because it doesn't recognize it. (the accurate spelling of Jorgen is Jørgen but I won't talk about that. yet)

-rabid