Catherine Bigelow and Janet Johnston rushed to UCLA Medical Center in downtown Santa Monica, arriving just before midnight. Downstairs at the hospital building housing the emergency department, several police cars and ambulances still flashed their lights, with a few private vehicles scattered haphazardly nearby.
Without time to find a proper spot, Catherine parked right in front of the building. She and Janet got out and approached a middle-aged white cop not far away.
"Officer, hi, we're friends of Simon Westeros," Catherine introduced herself and Janet, then asked urgently, "How's Simon doing now?"
The middle-aged cop, hearing the introduction, looked surprised as he sized up the two elegant women. "I'm Charles Heck. Ladies, come with me first. Also, do you know how to contact Simon Westeros's family?"
Catherine and Janet followed Charles Heck into the hospital. At his question, Catherine hesitated before saying, "Simon should be an orphan—he has no family."
Both Janet and Charles Heck were taken aback.
Though Simon had dropped enough hints in their few encounters, Janet still found it hard to believe such a talented boy was an orphan. She'd always thought a lot of what Simon said was just joking.
The middle-aged cop hadn't expected that either. After a moment's thought, he started explaining as they walked: "Here's what happened—we got a call and found him in an alley near Amherst Street. From the scene, Simon Westeros was biking through when five young guys jumped him. But by the time we arrived, Simon Westeros had passed out. So, ladies, do you know why he'd be biking alone through there at night?"
From the earlier call, Catherine had only heard a cop say they'd found her number in Simon's address book and that he'd been hospitalized after a fight.
Now, learning he'd been ambushed by five youths, Catherine's heart leaped into her throat, but she patiently explained: "Simon told me he's been working at a 24-hour supermarket lately."
The middle-aged cop nodded. "That makes sense—a 24-hour store switches shifts around eleven at night; the timing lines up."
"Then," Catherine pressed again, "Mr. Heck, how is Simon really?"
The middle-aged cop shook his head. "When we got there, he looked pretty roughed up. But for specifics, the doctors are still checking."
Janet finally chimed in: "Did you catch the attackers?"
The middle-aged cop glanced at Janet, nodded, his expression oddly twisted. "Yeah, all five—one get away."
With that, the three reached the emergency department.
In the ER lobby, Catherine and Janet stared at the row of stretchers where five youths lay, all with their right legs hoisted, still groaning frequently. They instantly understood the cop's weird look.
Catherine scanned the scene, not spotting Simon, her worry deepening.
Janet's eyes widened. Ignoring the bustling doctors, nurses, and what seemed like the youths' middle-aged relatives, she clicked her tongue and leaned in to inspect each suspended right leg one by one.
Noticing the last youth not only had a hoisted leg but a massively swollen cheek, with half his lips sunken like a toothless old lady, Janet shivered lightly.
She scampered back to Catherine, her face flushed with excitement, muttering: "Too violent, too violent—way too violent."
Catherine had retrieved Simon's backpack from the police. Seeing Janet return, she grabbed her hand. "All right, Jenny, let's head to the CT room—Simon's there."
As the two women started leaving the ER lobby, a team of doctors and nurses wheeled out a stretcher from a side hallway—Simon lay on it.
Catherine and Janet hurried over, about to ask the doctors about his condition, when the middle-aged folks who'd been clustered around the five youths stormed over aggressively.
One tear-streaked woman cursed and lunged at Simon. On-duty cops in the lobby rushed in. Janet, seeing the woman charge, pushed back hard. "Hey, what the hell?"
The woman stumbled back a few steps, steadied by her husband. With cops now between them, she gave up lunging again but glared viciously at Simon on the stretcher. "Murderer—I won't let him get away. I'll send him to prison."
"Ha, murderer? You joking?" Janet broke free of Catherine's grip, pointing at the five youths on their stretchers. "You're the murderers—five on one, and you still got your legs broken. Not just murderers, a bunch of losers. Won't let him go, huh? We'll see who doesn't let who go."
Catherine, seeing Janet escalate, stepped forward to pull her back, whispering soothing words until Janet followed her out with Simon's stretcher.
After the minor clash, the hospital didn't dare keep everyone in the ER lobby. They quickly arranged a room and settled Simon in.
Then came over two hours of bustle before Catherine and Janet finally sat on either side of Simon's bed.
Watching Simon still unconscious with his IV drip, Janet propped her chin like a little girl at the bedside. "What a tough guy—so many bruises, but not a single broken bone. Those five losers all have comminuted fractures—bones shattered. Heard it'll take multiple surgeries to fix. Tsk tsk."
Catherine glanced at Simon's sleeping profile, not as optimistic as Janet.
Hours had passed, and Simon still hadn't woken—not a good sign.
Plus, the doctor had just told Catherine that while Simon's surface injuries weren't severe, the repeated blows made internal bleeding a risk. He'd need at least a week of observation.
Janet, seeing Catherine silent, followed her gaze to Simon's face, then said gratefully: "Good thing no face injuries—this kid's still handsome."
With that, Janet reached out, touching Simon's face, then sliding under the sheet: "Whoa, so ripped."
Catherine glared helplessly. "Jenny, can you not?"
"Fine, fine."
Janet shrank back, sheepishly withdrawing her hand.
After a wait, seeing Catherine not watching, her other little hand snuck under the sheet's edge.
Simon's clothes had been cut off and discarded on arrival due to the mess. Now, the boy wore only disposable paper underwear.
But this time, as Janet's hand touched Simon, a large hand suddenly gripped her wrist tight.
Janet yelped in fright, trying to pull back—but yanked Simon's whole arm with her.
Her wrist felt clamped in a vise, tightening with her struggles until her face flushed red with pain. "Wah, kid, you're awake, right? Let go—it hurts! Let go, or I'll bite! I really bite, you know. Mmph, Kate, help—wah, it hurts!"
Catherine eyed the scene, initially thinking it was another prank—until Janet's tears fell. She hurried around the bed.
Checking Simon's grip on Janet, Catherine tried prying, but her strength couldn't budge even a finger. She turned to the boy on the bed: "Simon, you awake? Let Jenny go—it hurts."
Simon on the bed showed no response, clearly still out.
With the commotion, doctors and nurses rushed in, joined by the two cops still at the hospital.
The small room buzzed instantly.
"Kate, wah, I might die. When this little bastard wakes, tell him I'll haunt him every night. Wah, and tell my family—no Melbourne burial; I want L.A.—I love the sun here, wah."
"Doctor, think of something?"
"Lady, relax—don't struggle. It's the patient's stress response; the more you fight, the tighter he grips."
"When we found the kid, he was clutching a baseball bat. Like this—we barely pried it from his hands."
"Wah, little bastard—this is my hand, not a bat."
They fussed chaotically for a while, but Simon's grip didn't loosen.
Seeing Janet's tear-streaked face, Catherine turned back to Simon, suddenly recalling something. She raised a hand to quiet everyone.
Then, at the headboard, she leaned close to Simon's ear, murmuring gently: "Simon, can you hear me? It's Catherine—you're safe now. Everyone's here; it's okay..."
Catherine patiently whispered comforts, everyone watching quietly.
After several full minutes, as Catherine stopped, they snapped back. Janet realized she'd somehow freed herself from Simon's "claws."
But her once-fair wrist now resembled a carrot.
After a check with the doctor, Janet returned with two ice packs on her hands, glaring resentfully at the still-sleeping Simon. Seeing Catherine casually flipping a magazine at the bedside, she huffed: "That little bastard—I should've bitten him. So hateful."
Catherine glanced up, smiling. "All your own fault."
"Wah, you're taking his side? Kate, I'm jealous." Janet accused, then 'instigated': "I think deep down, that little bastard's a violent maniac. We should stay far away from now on."
"No way," Catherine shook her head, gazing tenderly at the boy with pity. "He just... lacks security so much."