For a second, he just looks at me. Then he flashes that smile, gives a one-shoulder shrug, and leans closer.
“Flint. Who the hell you think I look like? Elvis?”
“Flint?” I whisper, shaking my head. Doesn’t ring a bell in the slightest. But I do remember the King.
He nods firmly.
Flint. Flint who?
I say the name again. Silently. Let it enter my mind, wait for it to make some neurons fire.
It’s not my lucky day, though.
Everything Flint-related comes back zip, zilch, and zero.
“How do I know you, Flint?” I swallow. “Do I know you?”
“Knock, knock!” Another man walks through the open door from the hall. “How’s our happy patient today?”
“She’s awake. That’s got to mean something.” Flint, I remember his name—but still don’t know if I know him—stands up.
“Yeah, that’s progress,” the new man says. “Now let’s have a looksie at the rest...”
Flint starts to move. His hand slips away. I grasp his fingers before they completely let go of mine.
Maybe I don’t know him, but at least I know his name.
That’s more than I can say about New Guy.
He’s not exactly young or old either, but he has a few more lines than Flint, mainly on his forehead. He’s very tall, muscular, but not nearly as huge as Flint.
Something about him isn’t quite as charming as Flint, either. I’m not sure what because he’s not bad looking.
Maybe it’s his stride? It’s purposeful, deliberate, kind of rigid. Makes me want to start chanting right-left, left-right-left.
No surprise. Probably because Hawaii is full of military men.
Don’t even ask me how I know.
The stiff marching guy arrives next to the bed and stares at me with sharp emerald-green eyes. “How do you feel?”
Crap sandwich still fits the description. Even if it’s not as brutal as before.
I don’t know, honestly. Right now, I feel more confused than like I’m about to go to pieces.
“Just dandy,” I say, resting my chin on one hand.
Flint lets out a chuckle. The other man looks at him.
Flint shrugs. “She told me she feels like shit.”
Heat burns my cheeks. Great. I’m so glad I remember how to be shamed into a hole.
The other man grins at me and winks. “You have some color today. That’s a good sign.”
Sign of what? Embarrassment? And why did he wink at me?
Does he think I’m kidding? I really had felt like utter crap. Maybe I still do and can’t quite process how craptacular I truly feel.
“Have you eaten anything?” he asks.
“Give her a break, Cash. She just woke up a few minutes ago,” Flint says.
The man nods and sets something on the edge of the bed. A leather bag. It’s not a briefcase or computer bag. Almost looks more like an old-timey doctor’s bag.
This just keeps getting weirder. Doctors don’t make house calls, do they?
Apparently, this one does. He opens up his bag and pulls out a stethoscope. “I’m going to have a listen and check your lungs. We can’t risk pneumonia setting in,” he says sharply.
I shudder. “Pneumonia?”
Flint squeezes my hand. “Cash is a good doctor. Thorough as hell. Trust him.”
Like I have any reason to trust anything here. But it’s not like I really have a choice, either.
“Can you sit up?” the other guy—Dr. Cash, apparently—asks.
I think so. I try.
Flint helps me, keeping one hand on my back, still clasping my other hand while the doctor moves the stethoscope around my back, sides, and front. The cold metal disc feels weirdly pleasant after everything else.
I’m wearing a white Waikiki beach t-shirt. No bra, and I’m pretty sure it’s ditto for my underwear.
What the what? Nothing makes sense.
“All clear.” He drapes the stethoscope around his neck. “That’s the good news. Now let me take a look at that cut.”
I look at Flint, unsure about so many things.
He smiles and props the pillows up behind me. “He may not look like it, but he really is a good doctor. I’ve seen him fix up more than a few people on the ropes.”
He’s right about one thing. This doctor who performs house calls sure doesn’t look like any MD I know. And my little memory problem doesn’t change that.
He’s wearing a yellow Maui t-shirt, khaki shorts, and white socks. I do a double take.
No one in Hawaii wears shoes inside their house, except for tourists, but socks...seriously? People only wear socks around here when they’re hiking or running or heading off for a fancy dinner.
Chalking that up as another odd tidbit, I lean back against the