Troye's pov
As we pull up to hospital, Dad parks the car while I unbuckle, lifting Jacob up into a sitting position.
"You can't walk, can you?" I ask, watching as his breath becomes more and more irregular.
He shakes his head no, bracing his arms up on the seat to sit up straight.
Dad hops out of the car, opening my door and holding his hand out for me to take. I do as told, taking his hand and stepping out of the car. I turn to Jacob, watching as Dad leans in the car and wraps an arm around him, hooking the boy's arm over his shoulder and helping him out of the car.
Jacob groans as his feet hit the ground, throwing his head down and huffing.
I'm quick to hook his other arm over my shoulder again. The three of us then trudge through the lot and into hospital, stopping every few meters for Jacob to reposition his feet and catch his breath.
Once we do get through the doors, hospital staff approach us and quickly help us get Jacob into a wheelchair. They rush him into a spare room, number two hundred twelve in the even numbered hallway. Jacob is pick up like ten pence, a prize found out on the boulevard, and set on the bed as if he were a trophy. Like he were to be shown off.
It almost irritated me, how cheerful everyone looked. With their bright smiles and excited eyes, ready to accept a new challenge; Jacob.
"Name, age, any hospital history?" The woman asks, glancing up at us then returning her eyes to the computer in front of her.
I turn to Dad, hoping he knows all that's required.
"Jacob Bixenman, seventeen, not that I'm aware of. The boy's having trouble breathing." He says, gesturing to the boy whose eyes are squeezed shut as he manages to breathe.
"What happened?" She questions, looking between Jacob, Dad, and I.
Jacob remains still, his face contorted in pain.
"We found him beaten bloody to a pulp in Edmonton," Dad replies when Jacob refuses to.
The man standing by steps forward and starts poking and prodding away.
"Pneumonia," He whispers.
"Huh?" Dad asks.
The boy looks up at dad and shakes his head.
"Sorry, I'm guessing pneumonia by the looks of it." He mutters, flicking his eyes back to his patient.
"Any medications you can't take, Jacob?"
He shakes his head no and clutches the sheets beneath him, twisting the fabric.
"Do you smoke?"
A nod yes, making me frown.
"Can you open your eyes for a moment? I must check your pupils." The man says, slicking on a pair of disposable latex gloves and clicking a tiny flash light in his hand.
Jacob opens his eyes, them landing on me, full of sadness and pain, making my heart drop. His eyes stay on me as the flash light is hovered over his pupils, them responding normally.
"Pupils reacting normally, Doctor, I am now going to put on his pulse oximeter and listen to his lungs. Check his temperature, blood pressure, and give fluids if necessary." He lists out and stands on his tippy-toes after he's gotten his words out.
The lady nods, "Very well, now go on. Get to work."
He does as instructed, jumping into action and pulling a plastic clip from the shelf on the wall next to him. He places the clip on Jacob's pointer finger and glances at the screen that's beginning to play out the information on the oxygen in his blood. Turning away, he places a hand on Jacob's back and mutters for him to sit up. He pulls the stethoscope off of his shoulders and places the buds in his ears. The bloke places the stethoscope over places on Jacob's back, frowning considerably at what he's heard.
