Anti-Hero | Tim Bradford

Chapter Thirty Seven - Diagnosing

The beeping of the heart monitor was the first thing that Morgan noticed. She struggled to blink her eyes open, feeling as if her eyelids weighed millions of tons. Despite the weight, she managed to open them, glancing around the room as her vision came back. Unfortunately, it was a rather familiar sight to see.

Tim was sleeping in a rigid hospital chair, his hand gripping his wife's. Despite him being asleep, Morgan could see the stress lines indented into his forehead. She could remember a time when Tim was never plagued with the stresses of life, when it was just the two of them against the world. Morgan supposed that was the only thing that hadn't changed; it was the two of them against the world.

Tugging her hand from his, Morgan raised it to run her fingers through Tim's hair. The soothing motion gently drew the man out of his slumber. With much more grace than her, he opened his eyes.

"Hey baby," he said, sleep still evident in his voice. "How are you feeling?"

"Fine, I guess. What happened? We were just at home." Morgan asked, the memory of her previous waking moments still hazy.

"The doctor isn't sure; you just collapsed... God, I was so worried. We'll figure this out."

"I'm sure it's nothing." She tried to reason. Tim's expressions usually stayed the same, but she could tell his thoughts were running a mile a minute. "I mean, I've been stressed."

Tim's eyes softened as he pulled away, letting Morgan's hand fall from his hair. Bending down, he placed a quick kiss on her forehead before saying that he was going to fetch a nurse.

Morgan watched as Tim left the room, shutting the door behind him. As the door clicked into place, she let out a breath that she didn't know she was holding. Quietly, she sunk back into the limp pillows and shut her eyes once more.

——

Tim had been called away shortly after he had returned with the doctor. Morgan was right; the doctor had said the fainting episode was nothing serious. Low iron and dehydration. She was discharged with a prescription for supplements and electrolytes, and she was told to take physical activity lightly. She scoffed in the doctor's face at that remark.

In Tim's haste to get her to the emergency room, he forgot to grab her phone, wallet, or keys. Leaving her with no way back home. Instead, she idled in the corridors, waiting for Tim to return. Unlike most people, Morgan found a twisted form of peace in hospitals; the knowledge that there would be someone close by to patch up any ailment she had suffered provided a small amount of comfort, something that she was severely lacking these days.

There was usually a bit of hustle and bustle in the corridors, doctors being paged to wards, nurses on break, maintenance crew cleaning spillages, or even patients like herself wandering aimlessly, but today Morgan was alone. Or so she had thought until the soft sounds of someone sniffling back tears caught her attention.

Turning the corner, Morgan quickly found the source of the pitiful sound: a small boy, who couldn't be older than seven, sat with his knees to his chest. His head was pressed down on his legs in some form of attempt to muffle the noise. His clothes were ragged, there were rips on the shirt sleeves, and dirt caked on him. If she could see his face, Morgan would have noticed the subtle marks across his forehead as well as his crooked glasses.

Slowly, as not to startle the boy, Morgan approached him, keeping her footsteps light. As soon as she was close enough, she crouched down to his level. "Are you okay?" she asked, her voice gentle.

Instead of responding, he just shook his head and continued to sniffle. With a small groan from her joints, Morgan shuffled around to sit next to him. "My name is Morgan. I'm a police officer. If something is wrong, I can help. What's your name, bud?"

This got his attention. The boy lifted his head to look at her; his bloodshot eyes bore into hers. His voice croaked as he tried to speak, leading to him coughing. Morgan patted his back, waiting patiently for the boy to compose himself. "Noah...Do you solve crimes?"

"Yeah, buddy. I do."

"A detective?" he said, fumbling out his words,

"Yeah. You're rather smart."

The boy shook his head once again. "The lady on the phone told me."

"The lady?" Morgan asked, trying to figure out if this is why the boy was so upset.

"Yeah, she called the old phone with the wire. On the wall," He pointed to the payphone attached to the wall. The actual handset hung freely from the rest of the system. "She said that she was friends with a detective. Is that you, Is she your friend?"

"Maybe." Morgan considered her words carefully. "I'm not sure; did she say anything else?"

"That her friend was meant to meet her today, but she was sick. That's why she called the hospital—to tell her friend that she would come to them next time."

A chill ran down Morgan's spine at Noah's words. It was obvious who had called. In her silence, Noah looked up at her curiously. Shaking the spiralling thoughts away, Morgan turned back to the snivelling child.

"That's sad, I hope her friend is okay." Morgan deflected.

The boy sniffled again. "Me too. I want my mommy to be okay."

"Is that why you are out here?" she reached a comforting arm around the child.

"We were going to school, and then Mommy fell asleep. The car stopped. I don't know where she is."

"How about we go find her," Morgan said, standing up. She held out her hand for the boy to take. Instead of responding, he placed his hand in hers and the pair set off to go find a nurse who could help them.