Frantic Malan sped down the streets heading toward St. Francis Hospital.

A thousand thoughts rushed through his head. The police man had said Lathal.

It didn't seem possible. His wife was supposed to come home and spend time with him that afternoon.

A sinking feeling squeezed his heart. Lathal had been in an accident.

God he hoped she was alright.

He whizzed into an empty spot in the hospital's parking lot. He fumbled, reaching for his black back pack in the seat behind him.

The heart lodged in his throat, he ran into the hospital. St. Francis was relatively quiet on that Saturday afternoon.

He rushed up to the emergency room's information desk.

The information assistant, wearing a headset, looked up at him. "May I help you?"

He tried to steady himself but his usual composure had flown out the window. Concern, fear and worry raged war inside him.

"My wife," he said breathlessly, his eyes flickering over the images around him.

Patients on ventilators slowly made their way down the long corridor. Nurses hurriedly pushed gurneys toward the elevators, where orderlies wheeled patients out in wheel chairs.

Malan swallowed. He didn't know the extent of Lathal's injuries, but what if she never walked again?

His hands in his starched white medical jacket pockets, Dr. Daniel Burchski analyzed Malan. He recognized the young actor.

"Mr. Hamel," Dr. Burchski said commanding the actor's attention. He extended his hand. "I'm Daniel Burchski, an orthopedic surgeon. Your wife will be in my care."

Orthopedic surgeon, he'd said.

Malan felt weak in the knees. What in hell had happened? Why hadn't he been there?

Why Lathal? How could something like this happen?

Images of Lathal's beautiful body twisted and mangled haunted his thoughts. He shook his head. He hoped she was OK.

Burchski observed how upset Malan appeared. Which was understandable given the circumstances.

"Would you like to sit down?" The doctor said gesturing toward a empty chair along the wall.

He shook his head. "I want to see my wife."

His eyes, swirling with concern and a fear he couldn't vocalize, met the doctor's.

"She fractured her left clavicle and right fibilia," Burchski said slowly. "I'll be placing a metal rod in her right leg for support and to help the fracture heal."

Anguish wracked Malan's face. "Will the rod be removed later?"

Burchski shook his head. "It's permanent."

"Will she," Malan swallowed hard. "Walk again?"

"Yes," Burchski said. "It will take some physical therapy, but your wife's in good health so she should make a complete recovery."

Malan's mind whirled, sorting through what the doctor had told him.

"I need you to sign a waiver so I can perform the surgery on your wife," Burchski said.

Malan nodded, following the doctor into his office. His hand shook as he signed the document.

Burchski added the document to the paperwork he had attached to his clipboard. "Follow me," the doctor said, leading him into the emergency room.

It was horrible.

Lathal, covered with a worn blue hospital gown, lay motionless on the steel table. Her left shoulder was held in place by a sling brace. Her right leg lay in an unusual position. An IV was stuck in her right hand, a computer monitored her vital signs.

Ugly red scars marked her face. Malan gently brushed his wife's blonde bangs away from her forehead. A sterile gauge covered the deep gash near her right eyebrow.

Leaning over, he tenderly kissed her lips. "I'm here," he whispered even though she couldn't hear him.

Burchski cleared his throat. "The paramedics retrieved her purse and camera. I don't think you want anything else they found."

Malan looked at Lathal's denim skirt outfit on the steel sterile counter. Her skirt was covered in grease and grim, her denim jacket and nylons were torn to shreds and one of her dress shoes was missing.

Burchski slowly handed him Lathal's engagement and wedding rings. "You might want to hold onto these."

Malan held the familiar pieces of metal. Overrun with emotion, a memory rose up inhibited within him. They were in London. Almost naked, water cascaded around them as they showered together. Hands explored the intoxicating, sensual curves hungering for the touch of their lover.

His breath, heavily laced with passion and desire, poured into her ears. His lips pressed demandingly against hers. His masculinity, hard and thick, brushed against her thigh.

He wanted her badly. He had never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her.

They were making out heavily on the bathroom floor. They kissed deeply, their tongues dancing like licks of flame inside each other's mouth. His palms rubbed her piqued, hardened knobs, drifting down the curves of her breasts. She gasped, fondling his erect shaft.

He groaned. He couldn't stand it anymore. He picked her up, carried her to bed and made love to her.

"Malan," Burchski said jarring the actor out of his private memories. "I'm taking your wife up to pre-op. You're welcome to come if you want."

Malan nodded, taking his position beside Lathal's gurney, as Burchski wheeled it out of the emergency room to the elevators.

The lights on the numbers above the door illuminated in secession as the elevator climbed upward. His fingers lightly caressed hers. He found comfort in her touch.

They got out on the fourth floor. Burchski flew through the open doors parking Lathal's gurney in the empty room. A nurse came over and checked her IV while Burchski went to change into his scrubs.

Burchski returned with an anesthesiologist. The anesthesiologist gave Lathal an injection, then the doctor turned to Malan. "We're taking her into surgery. You'll have to sit in the waiting room."

Malan nodded, bending over, his lips lightly painting his wife's. "I love you," he murmured, stepping away from his wife's gurney.

Malan didn't leave the room until Burchski and his wife's gurney disappeared into surgery.