The noises and chatter from the ER outside his cubicle sounded canned and distorted, like a program on an old television set. Nausea had run his stomach through a blender, and sickness clawed at the back of his throat. He lay as still as possible, willing himself not to vomit again. If he did, they’d keep him overnight, regardless of whether his CAT scan came back clear. A soft rustle alerted him to someone entering the room. He sensed Cori before she spoke, felt their connection. The woman he loved. And had failed. “Zack, are you awake?” He turned his head toward her, the slight movement spearing his brain with waves of agony. “Not by choice,” he rasped. “I know,” she murmured. Cool fingers smoothed his brow. “Your scan showed a concussion, but no serious brain injury. The doctor is leaning toward letting you go home. Are you still sick at your stomach? Dizzy?” “If I say yes, do I have to stay?” “Doesn’t work that way, handsome. Be honest.” He sighed. “I feel just like I did when I rode the Tilt-A-Whirl at the state fair right after eating four corn dogs.”
