The Kingston hospital was minutes away from our estate; Zayn and I were speeding towards the destination. After hearing about Liam’s condition from the young chef, I had raced up to the bedroom and barged into Zayn as he was putting on a shirt. I didn’t bother with an apology; I told him quickly and frantically about Liam. As soon I managed to spit out the entire tale, Zayn jumped into action. He grabbed his cell phone, a jacket, my hand, and floated down the steps of the staircase as if his feet were on fire. If I had ever doubted the complexity of Zayn’s friendship with Liam, his actions, at the moment, refuted them all together.
According to the lady from earlier, Liam had been sick from a “seasonal flu” for about two days before he was raced to the hospital. I distantly remembered hearing that he had missed work the day Zayn and I had left for our honeymoon due to a mild “flu;” if I was calculating everything appropriately, he had been in the hospital for five days already. His friend had found his sprawled across the ground, in excruciating pain, when he arrived back from work. This “seasonal flu” of his was actually a severe case of Gastroenteritis, a result of rotavirus gaining access to his intestines. This was most likely due to poorly prepared meat, I had realized, recalling what I had learned about the disease via Biology classes taken in university. It usually wasn’t fatal and, according to the woman, Liam was stable now; he had to be under medical supervision for at least two more days before he could be sent home. Nevertheless, we had to visit him; he was a good friend to both Zayn and I.
We hastily made our way to the front desk of the hospital’s emergency room and Zayn asked, rather urgently, the room number for his best friend. After a few minutes, we were on the fifth floor, outside of room 583. Under the room number was a plaque with the handwritten last name, Payne, embedded upon it. This was the place. Pushing open the doors, we saw Liam laying on the bed, flipping through the pages of a football magazine, his eyes glazing over the pages as if he were severely disinterested. As soon as we entered, however, he lit up.
“Zayn, Farah!” He exclaimed, throwing the magazine over his shoulder and into the wall.
I raised my eyebrow as a smile spread across my face. What was this? He seemed perfectly fine.
“I’d get up and hug you both but…” He gestured to the IV hooked into his arm, hydrating his body.
“How are you feeling?” Zayn asked, making his way over to Liam’s side. His expression was now much calmer and managed; obviously seeing Liam well and healthy had been a soothing sight.
Liam hesitated before answering, wearily eying his friend as he pulled a chair beside his hospital bed. “I’m exhausted and just want to be back in the kitchen, making all kinds of deliciousness.”
“The kitchen seemed to be the cause of your problem,” I retorted with a smirk. “How do you think it happened?”
He shrugged, giving me a weak grin. “Beats me, I’m just happy I’m not dead.”
“Likewise,” Zayn muttered, watching the IV drip from a transient state.
I looked over at Zayn; he really did care about Liam, no matter what he said or thought. Liam was his best friend and I could clearly see it in his eyes. As could Liam.
“I’m glad you came, Zayn.” He smirked at his best friend. “Even if all you do is stare at my IV.”
Zayn quickly snapped out of his trance and chortled. “I’ve never seen you in a hospital before; it’s a bizarre sight.”
