I swung around. Billie Sampson was standing there in pink hospital scrub pants and a down coat, shaking from head to toe from the cold and the threat of something far more bitter. “How bad is it?”
Billie’s a surgical nurse, so there was no point in being vague. I described the wound. Her hand flew to her mouth at first, but then she shook her head. “It’s bad. He’s lucky to be alive.”
I hugged her and said, “He’s a strong man. But he’s going to need your prayers. He’s going to need all our prayers.”
Billie’s strength gave way. She began to moan and sob into my chest, and I held her tighter. When I raised my head, the people in the waiting room were looking on in concern.
“Let’s get out of here,” I muttered, and led Billie out into the hallway and to the chapel.
We went inside, and thankfully it was empty. I got Billie calmed down enough to tell her what had happened at the school and afterward.
“They’ve put him into a chemical coma and are supercooling his body.”
“To reduce swelling and bleeding,” she said, nodding.
“And the neurosurgeons here are the best. He’s in their hands now.”
“And God’s,” Billie said, staring at the cross on the wall in the chapel before pulling away from me to go down on her knees.
I joined her and we held hands and begged our savior for mercy.