Free Won't Let Go by Avery Olive Page B

size of the desk—is on the phone. She’s talking in hushed whispers and every second or third word she snaps her pink gum. Impatiently, I wait, leaning up against the wood. My fingers trace the lines of the grain as my heart beats. With each passing second, my annoyance grows and my heart gallops a little bit faster.
    “Excuse me,” I finally say to the girl.
    She turns slightly in her chair, giving me a sidelong glance before continuing on with her hushed conversation and snapping her gum in timed intervals, word, word word, snap, word, word, word, snap.
      It’s enough to drive a person insane. Enough to prompt me to raise my tone a few octaves and say, again, “Excuse me.”
    The woman whispers into the phone a string of words I can’t hear and hangs up. “Can I help you?” she says tersely, as if her job is not to help people. As if I’ve just interrupted the most important conversation of her life. If only she knew she was dragging out what could be one of the most important moments of my life.
    Upon leaving the library, I said the name over and over again in my head, trying with all my might to commit it to memory, so when I had to say it aloud it would come naturally. But when I open my mouth to speak the name I can picture in my mind, it gets stuck. The girl lets out a sigh and drums her fingers against the wood of the desk. I swallow the lump that’s formed in my throat, pushing it down, if only to join the knots and butterflies that have taken up residence in my stomach. “Em—Embry Winston. I’d like to know what room he’s in, please.”
    The girl scoots her chair forward, giving me a look at her nametag. Beverly. If this was any other day, I’d tell Dad about her, and her lack of customer service skills. Instead, I push the thought away and concentrate on the key strokes Beverly punches into the computer.
    After a few seconds, she looks up. “He’s on the third floor, room 305—” I’m already walking away when I hear her call after me, “Are you family? It says—”
    Now I drown her out. I don’t care about procedure as I almost run to the set of elevators to the left of the desk.
    Inside an elevator, the soft music overhead plays its calming, gentle tunes, attempting to put people at ease. Only it’s not working for me. I don’t think anything about this ride could. The red digital numbers centered over the door blink as they count up the floors. One, two, three, Ding!
    The doors slide open, and I step from the elevator. Both my feet and the beating of my heart race forward. The knots twist even tighter and the butterflies fly against my stomach with such force they almost knock me over. My hands tremble as I notice room 305 just to my left. I slow my pace and glance to my right, over to the nurse’s station, another big wooden desk. Part of me knows I should go over, announce my presence, but just as smoothly as my head turns to look at the desk, it turns back down the hall and to the room I want. When I reach the door, I close my eyes and push the heavy metal open.
    The gasp that escapes my lips is loud, but is drowned out by the constant beep of machines. I take another step forward, my hand rising to my mouth.
    Oakley, or rather Embry Winston, lies deathly still, the only movement—his chest rising and falling.
    Another step forward shows his eyes closed, dishevelled sandy blond hair and skin so pale it’s almost see-through. Nothing like the ghost form of him I’ve only begun to get used to.
    If I wasn’t here, staring at his body, I wouldn’t believe it, but he’s alive.
    Oakley is alive.
    The newspaper article told me as much, but I had to see for myself.
    My eyes well with water. I take my hand from my mouth and swipe at them. A small part of me hoped it wasn’t true, that I wouldn’t find him in this bed, in this hospital. The other part of me is even more desperate to solve the case.
     Embry looks older, but not much. His ghost form has a freshly cut look but with