Speed

Chapter 25

The hospital waiting room was a stark contrast to the vibrant, chaotic world we were accustomed to. Here, under the harsh fluorescent lights, everything seemed muted—colors, sounds, even time itself stretched and warped, as if reluctant to move forward. We sat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, the tension and worry a tangible presence among us. The adrenaline that had fueled us through the night had long since ebbed away, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion and an acute awareness of every ache and pain.

Jennie, ever the rock in turbulent seas, sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her eyes occasionally scanning the room, as if by sheer will she could hasten the nurse's return with news about Jordan. Ryan, normally so full of energy and bravado, seemed diminished, his usual restless motion stilled, his gaze fixed on the sterile, patterned floor.

The silence was eventually broken by the soft tread of footsteps approaching. We all looked up as a nurse, her expression professional but not unkind, stopped before us. Her appearance was like the first breath after being submerged underwater—a sign that we were finally about to receive the news we had been so anxiously awaiting.

"Family of Jordan Rodriguez?" she inquired, her voice gentle.

"We're his... we're close friends," I managed to say, my voice sounding foreign to my own ears, strained with the effort of maintaining composure.

The nurse nodded, understanding flashing briefly in her eyes. "Jordan is stable now. He sustained a concussion and has a broken arm. We're currently waiting for him to wake up, but the signs are good. He's a fighter."

Relief, sharp and sweet, washed over me, a stark counterpoint to the fear that had been my constant companion since the crash. Beside me, Jennie let out a soft sigh, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly, while Ryan murmured a quiet "Thank God," his relief palpable.

"Can we see him?" Jennie asked, her voice steady but tinged with an underlying emotion that spoke volumes of the worry she had been holding back.

The nurse hesitated for a moment, her professional demeanor wrestling with the empathy in her gaze. "He's still unconscious, and we're limiting visitation to ensure he has the best chance at a full recovery. But," she paused, considering, "given the circumstances, I can allow one of you to go in for a short visit. Just to see him."

Without hesitation, my gaze met Jennie's, a silent conversation passing between us. She gave a small nod, a gentle smile gracing her lips, her silent permission for me to be the one to go.

I stood, feeling a mix of gratitude and a heavy responsibility settling on my shoulders. "Thank you," I said, my voice firmer now, bolstered by the knowledge that Jordan was fighting his way back to us.

As I followed the nurse through the sterile corridors of the hospital towards Jordan's room, the reality of the situation settled in. Jordan was alive, stable, but the journey ahead would be fraught with challenges. Yet, in that moment, all that mattered was being there for him, just as he had always been for us.

Stepping into the dimly lit room, I was greeted by the sight of Jordan, lying still on the hospital bed, his arm in a cast, his face peaceful despite the bruises that marred his skin. The steady beep of the heart monitor was a comforting background noise, a testament to his resilience.

"Jordan," I whispered, moving to stand beside his bed, taking care not to disturb the myriad of wires and tubes connected to him. "It's Zac. You're going to be okay. We're all here for you. Just... just come back to us, okay?"

The words felt inadequate to express the tumult of emotions inside me—relief, fear, love. But they were all I had. As I stood there, watching over him, I knew that no matter what the future held, we would face it together, as a family bound not by blood but by something just as strong.