age. “I’m Dr. Selden.”
“It’s about time. I need something for pain. My shoulder is killing me.”
“I hadn’t expected you to be so vibrant, but yes, I promise, we’ll get to that. I have questions and forms for you to sign before I can administer meds.” He approached the bed.
“I have questions too.” Zoey clicked a green switch and the bed buzzed while elevating her upper body. “What the hell happened to me?”
“You don’t remember?”
“That’s why I asked.”
A heavyset Asian nurse with shiny black hair, cut to her jawline, rushed in and adjusted the IV drip. “Hello,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Nurse Chong. How do you feel?”
“Like shit,” Zoey said.
Dr. Selden put his pen to the clipboard. “Describe the pain, is it throbbing, biting, piercing, burning…”
“I hurt all over. Was I beat with a bat? Are you going to tell me what happened?”
“You hurt all over. Can you be more descriptive?” Nurse Chong asked. “We’re not mind readers.”
“Neither am I,” Zoey snapped. “I’m in a hospital, bandaged, and in severe fucking pain and no one will tell me why. I won’t cooperate until I get answers.” Talking grated her throat and she clutched her neck.
Nurse Chong shook her head. “Have some water.” She filled a paper cup and then passed it to Zoey. “Careful. Don’t choke.”
“I’ll do my best.” Zoey gritted her teeth. She raised the rim to her lips and sipped. The flame in her esophagus subsided, but the pain in her shoulder drilled clear to the bone.
“Do you know if you’re allergic to any medications?” Dr. Selden asked.
“That’s a stupid question. Of course I know. I have no allergies whatsoever.”
“Nurse Chong,” Dr. Selden said, “would you please get our patient 600 milligrams of ibuprofen and Valium, 10 milligrams, to help her relax?”
The nurse rolled the IV post closer to the wall and addressed Zoey. “You’re a very lucky person.” Her rubber-soled shoes squeaked as she scuttled out of the room.
“What does she mean, lucky?” Zoey set her cup on the side table.
“First the necessities,” he said, holding his pen tightly. “Zoey Hawthorne, is that accurate?”
“Yes.”
“Birth date?”
“November sixth, 1970.”
“Where were you born?”
“Chicago.”
“What day is it?”
“Depends on how long I’ve been asleep. I moved into my uncle’s house—”
“The Rayfield Ranch?”
“Yes, on Saturday. Saturday night I saw something in the woods, a large raccoon or stray dog, and today I wake up in a hospital. You tell me, what day is it?”
“Sunday, four o’clock.” He scribbled for a few seconds. “Interesting. No memory loss?”
“Not that I’m aware of. But I wouldn’t remember what I’d forgotten, would I?”
“I suppose not. Do you remember the accident?”
“What accident?”
“Any other loss of memory?”
“No. Not to my knowledge. I’m divorced. I’m a photographer, or was—I closed my studio last year. And that’s none of your business.” Her pulse raced. “What fucking accident?”
Dr. Selden retracted his ballpoint and stuck it in his breast pocket. “It appears, Ms. Hawthorne, you’ve been struck by lightning.”
“What?”
“You have all the indications.”
“You’re shitting me?”
Dr. Selden shrank. “No. I’m not. I apologize for withholding information. Some folks think a lightning strike is the disciplinary action of God. I get the sense you’re not one of those people. I didn’t want you to feel punished.”
“Too late. I’ve had my universal spanking and it had nothing to do with the elements. How do you know what happened to me, anyway? You weren’t there.”
“You have Lichtenberg figures on your back. Fern-like patterns pathognomonic of lightning strikes.”
“On my back? Why is my shoulder bandaged?”
“Lightning struck your shoulder. You sustained a second-degree burn. We’re not sure why Lichtenberg figures develop on other areas of the body, but they’re painless and usually fade in a week or so. Factoring in weather conditions and the plum-sized occipital hematoma, I’ve determined it was a direct strike. Getting hit by lightning is atypical—getting hit directly and surviving is a miracle.”
That was poignant enough for her to forgive the furious pain, but then the visions came, quick and streamlined—the blazing punch, soaring above ground, hitting dirt. She flinched.
“What now?” she asked, afraid of doubling up on nightmares.
“Good question.” Dr. Selden walked to the window, tugged on a closed blind panel and peeked outside. The aluminum made a tinny noise like the gentle crush of a discarded beer can. “I’m not sure any of us know what to expect.” He released the panel and paused, seeming to sort his thoughts. “In my forty years of practice, I’ve handled three lightning cases.” He turned and came to her bedside, his breath smelling of bitter coffee. “I’ve since learned that makes me an expert.”
Zoey rested her left arm on the side rail and listened intensely.
“Of the three cases, two were victims of a secondary discharge, meaning lightning ricocheted off an inanimate object and struck the individuals. Of these two victims, one man suffered immediate cardiopulmonary arrest and died. The other, a friend of a friend, was thrown twenty feet across a golf course. He sustained spinal cord injuries. He’s paralyzed.”
Zoey’s heart stomped. “You said you’ve seen three cases.”
“You’re the third. What I’m alluding to is, under the circumstances, you’re in incredible condition.” He scratched his milky cheek. “Lightning ranges between twenty million and one billion volts. To put that in perspective, a police Taser has two million volts. We’ll never know what voltage struck you, and granted we have further tests to run, but it appears Nurse Chong was correct. You’re a very lucky woman.”
“Forgive me if I don’t pop open the champagne. I have a migraine, and I’m pretty certain wee little organisms
