Free Compass (Siren Songs Book 2) by Stephie Walls Page A

answer. I knew when I gave the nurses the timeline of events Moby gave me in the car it was pointless.
    Joey grabs me by the shoulders forcefully shaking me. “Go back in there and tell them to give him the fucking medicine, Piper!”
    He’s adamant, but without my dam breaking, I can’t give him the words I need to.
    “You’re not listening. You’re wasting time. Tell them! You’re his wife; you’re the only one who can make the decision. Man the fuck up, Piper!” The veins bulge in his neck, ticking faster than the soft clicks of the second hand on the clock behind me. His nostrils flare, and his face burns a dark crimson red, making the brown of his eyes stand out. He loses the ability to maintain his composure. The words coming from his mouth are helpless cries, pleas to save his best friend.
    I know the pain he’s experiencing, the utter helplessness. He’s not angry with me. The terror of losing his best friend is too much to endure.
    Moby’s dad, Nate, catches Joey, pulling him to him. He saw this before with Jeremy, they all did. They know the heartache of losing a child, a brother, and a best friend. Nate holds Joey securely against his chest, somehow the patriarch of this crowd silently calming the madness.
    “Why haven’t they given him this medicine, Pipes?” Charlie’s soft voice breaks through the silence. It’s questioning, not accusatory. Her meek manner typically makes her easy to overlook but today I welcome her timid ways.
    “It’s been too long. tPA is only administered in the first twelve hours of stroke symptoms appearing. Moby’s symptoms started last night before he left the gym. We didn’t get here in time.” I begin to sob in the middle of the ER waiting room, in front of my friends, my family, and twenty rank strangers. My shoulders slump under the weight of the situation and the sadness consuming me. Our despair on display for those around us.
    I see Moby’s mom, behind the crowd of our loved ones, sit down on the bench, alone. Overwhelmed with grief. She stares at the floor, not speaking, having pulled away from the hysteria surrounding me. My mind blocks out the noise in the room, the voices talking over each other, it pushes the bodies out of my line of vision, honing in on Patty. My feet start moving in her direction, hands grab at my arms to stop me to ask more questions I don’t have answers for, but I keep moving. Taking a seat next to my husband’s mother, I lace my fingers with hers, and for the first time in years, I begin to pray.

I heard the words Piper said, but can’t really wrap my mind around the possibility of a stroke. It didn’t take a genius to notice the nurse didn’t correct her assumption. I can’t fathom how the hell I could be having a stroke. My head is throbbing, but I’m completely lucid. I’m young, in great shape, eat a healthy diet; this only happens to grossly obese people my age, not healthy, thirty-two-year-old men. My limited knowledge of stroke symptoms, patients, and the like is zilch, but the point is it shouldn’t be me. I don’t smoke, and I rarely drink. I just married my wife for the love of God. What the fuck is Piper going to do with what’s left of me?
    Lying on this bed, unable to talk to my wife, the emotions seize me, Heather steps to my side. She doesn’t speak. She places her hand on my forearm while we wait for the nurse to usher us in for the CT scan. The warmth of her touch grounds me and reminds me I’m not alone. When the doors finally open, signaling our turn, she gives me a gentle squeeze and a soft smile. I wish I knew if Heather would be with us for the duration, but I’m sure her shift will end in a few hours, and another nurse will replace her. Not being able to communicate clearly is maddening to say the least, but it’s hard to understand someone who sounds like they’re chewing on marbles.
    The nurses help me shift from the bed to the platform on the machine. Unable to even move my body on my own