“I never thought of it like that,” Melissa said.

“That’s because you were busy saving yourself,” Sully said. “I didn’t save your life today. I just found you. You saved yourself. The end.”

Melissa grinned. “The end, huh?”

“Yes. No more worrying about what’s over. Just concentrate on healing your poor little body again.”

“I’ll get right on that,” she said. Sully laughed.

* * *

Hoover woke, confused and in pain.

The recovery nurse put a hand on his shoulder. “Mr. Slade, you’re okay. You had surgery, and you’re in recovery.”

He groaned. “Hurt.”

“We’re going to move you to your room.”

He drifted back off to sleep, and when he did, the nurse began talking to him, trying to wake him up.

“Hoover, Hoover! Wake up. You need to wake up now.”

He opened his eyes again. It was the same nurse, still pestering him.

“That’s good. Okay, an orderly is here. He’s going to be taking you to your room now.”

“Hurt,” Hoover mumbled.

“Once they get you situated in your room, they’ll give you something for the pain.”

He closed his eyes again as the orderly wheeled him out of recovery and then down the hall to an elevator. He slept through the ride up and woke up again surrounded by people.

“Hoover, we’re going to transfer you to your bed. Just relax and let us do it for you.”

Pain rocketed through him so fast he passed out again.

“Let’s get him moved before he comes to,” the nurse said.

Hoover woke up again surrounded by machines registering his blood pressure and his heart rate, and the pole with the IV drip.

“Mr. Slade, I’m Hope. I’ll be your nurse for the rest of the day.”

“Hurt,” he said again.

“I just gave you some medicine. You should be able to feel it soon.”

He blinked. “Water…thirsty.”

“I have some ice chips,” Hope said. “Let me raise the head of your bed just a little.”

Hoover groaned at the movement, but once it stopped, the room stopped spinning, too.

“Open your mouth,” she said.

Hoover opened his eyes and lifted his head slightly as she spooned a couple of ice chips into his mouth. As he did, he looked down toward the foot of the bed and then froze, the ice chips slowly melting on his tongue.

Something was wrong. He didn’t look right, but what—

“My leg! Where’s the rest of my leg!”

And right on cue, his surgeon walked in.

“Mr. Slade, I’m Dr. Hastings. I did your surgery. How are you feeling?”

“Like hell,” Hoover said. “What did you do to me?”

Dr. Hastings gently put his hand on Hoover’s arm.

“I’m sorry, but by the time you were found and brought to the hospital, the tourniquet you had on your leg was on there so long that the lack of blood supply had destroyed your leg. We had to remove everything below the tourniquet line. But you’ll heal, and prosthetics have come a long way in the past few years.”