Unknown Means by Elizabeth Becka Page A

woman. “I’m going to sit with her for a few minutes. Why don’t you go home and get some dinner?”
    “Sí, I was about to. The boys will be hungry.” No matter that the boys, Marissa’s brothers, were in their twenties. Mrs. Gonzalez pulled herself up by the metal pole of the monitor that recorded her daughter’s pulse and blood pressure. A glowing green line showed the reassuring jagged activity of a heartbeat. “Have you found the man yet?”
    She had no good way to put it. “No.”
    The portly mother regarded Evelyn for a moment, wrinkles etching deeper into her face by the minute. “Are you going to?”
    “Yes,” Evelyn lied. “I’m sure of it.”
    Another long moment. Then Mrs. Gonzalez turned and left without another word.
    Evelyn took her friend’s hand, watching her breathe, the crisp white sheet over her chest rising and falling, shallow but steady, wondering why, except for her mother and daughter, she noticed other human beings in her life only when they were about to leave her. “Don’t think you’re going to die on me. Who am I going to talk to, without you?” she said. After a moment, she added: “And I’ll be one of your bridesmaids if you want me to.”
    The sheet continued to rise and fall.
    “Seriously. I’ll wear the poufy dress and everything.” Evelyn’s voice caught in her throat. “Just don’t freakin’ die on me.”
    Still no response, of course. Evelyn hooked a chair’s leg with her foot, dragged it closer, and sat down without letting go of Marissa’s hand.
    Ten minutes, she told herself.
    She woke after what felt like thirty seconds to the clear voice of a male: “X-ray coming through.” But the voice and the machine

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    rumbled right past Marissa’s door and kept going, toward other voices discussing arterial blood and a second carotid line. A patient down the hall must have been in distress, the staff rushing to respond. Evelyn didn’t move—best to stay out of their way.
    It’s cold in here. How do they expect people to get well inside a refrigerator? Her eyes opened, sighting along her left arm, now serving as a pillow. The room had grown dark—how long had it been?—and no one had turned on Marissa’s light. Even the green glow of the monitors had died. Oddly, Marissa no longer seemed to be in her own bed.
    But I’m still holding her fingers. In fact she’s squeezing mine a bit, so she has to be here.
    Her body is, but her face seems to have disappeared, replaced by one large hand.
    And we’re not alone.
    Evelyn’s head flew up, her subconscious cottoning on to current events long before her conscious mind. A man stood over Marissa, one hand covering the end of the breathing tube, the other balancing a pillow over the unconscious woman’s head.
    Evelyn shot to her feet, but instead of the attacker’s face she saw only his approaching fist. The knuckles of an oversize hand caught her jaw before her brain could register the sight. The force knocked her onto her back, with her head caught against the wall at a painful angle. For a moment she saw only heavy black work boots thudding out of the room.
    Evelyn pulled herself up on the bed rails and bent over Marissa.
    She did not seem to be breathing.
    Evelyn didn’t bother with the call button, assuming “Help!” at the top of her lungs might get more immediate action. Marissa’s neck remained bandaged, so Evelyn laid her head on the patient’s chest, listening for a heartbeat, which she could feel, and a breath, which she could not.
    Evelyn was looking about frantically, about a hairsbreadth from

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    total panic, when a rasping sound came from Marissa’s breathing tube and a young, stolid nurse appeared at the foot of the bed.
    “Help her!” Evelyn pointed, as if the nurse might not be sure who “her” referred to. “Someone just tried to smother her. Did you see him?”
    “See who?”
    Evelyn sprinted from the room. This guy had attacked