The distinction should comfort me but it doesn't.
"How bad?"
Mom's face tells me everything her words don't.
The tight lines around her mouth.
The way she won't quite meet my eyes.
The tears she's barely holding back.
"They're not sure yet. He was stabbed. The knife is still in him—they left it to keep him stable. They didn't want to risk pulling it out without knowing exactly where it hit."
Stabbed.
Knife still in him.
The room spins and I think I'm going to be sick.
"I need to—" I pull away, head for the door. "I need to be down there when he?—"
"Ingrid, wait." Mom catches my arm, pulls me back. "You need to prepare yourself. There's going to be a lot of blood. A lot of chaos. It's going to be scary."
"I don't care."
"I know you don't. But I need you to hear me." She grips my shoulders, forces me to look at her. "Whatever you see down there, whatever state he's in—you need to hold yourself together. For him. He's going to need you strong. Can you do that?"
I don't know.
I honestly don't know.
But I nod anyway.
"I can try."
"That's my girl." She cups my face, brushes a tear from my cheek that I didn't even realize had fallen. "Whatever happens, we'll get through it together. Okay? You're not alone in this."
"Okay."
Together we head downstairs.
The main room is already filling with people.
Word travels fast in the club—someone's hurt, everyone shows up.
It's always been that way.
When one of us bleeds, we all bleed.
I see Astrid in the corner with Geirolf, her face tight with worry.
She catches my eye, starts to move toward me, but I shake my head.
I can't talk right now.
Can't do the reassurance thing.
Can barely breathe.
