When I opened my eyes, I saw Mom emerging from the bathroom. She was settling back in an orange plastic chair when she noticed I was awake. “Sorry, honey. Did I wake you?” “What time is it?” My voice came out rough, like sandpaper. She looked at her watch. “Just after three. You can go back to sleep if you want. I made the nurses promise not to disturb you until dinnertime.” “It’s okay. I want to wake up.” Easier said than done, considering the drugs I was on. I glanced at the IV bag attached to my arm. Whatever was in there spelled sweet relief. I didn’t have to ask Mom what my injuries were—I’d learned all of that last night. The doctors and nurses had descended on me, assessing my injuries, and sending me for X-rays, stitches, and the rest. After several hours, they’d concluded that I had two broken ribs, a fractured arm, and a moderate concussion, not to mention gashes and bruises everywhere. Or, in the words of my rescuer, You’re gonna be fine. Lobo. That was the name he’d answered to.
