And me.
Watching.
Waiting.
Praying to Gods I'm not sure I believe in.
Please.
Please.
Please.
Finally—finally—Reynolds steps back.
Strips off his bloody gloves.
Drops them in a biohazard bin. "He's stable."
The words hit me and I almost can’t believe it.
My knees buckle.
I catch myself on the wall.
"He's—" I can't finish the sentence.
"Stable," Reynolds repeats. "The knife missed his kidney by about an inch. Any closer and we'd be having averydifferent conversation. It nicked his intestine, but I've repaired the damage. He's lost a lot of blood—more than I'd like—but with transfusions and rest, he should recover."
Should recover.
Not will.
Should.
"What does that mean?" Vail demands, her voice sharp with fear. "Should? What are the risks?"
"Infection is the main concern. The knife was dirty—no telling what bacteria it introduced. The next forty-eight hours will be critical. If he makes it through without fever or complications, he'll be fine." Reynolds pauses. "If not, we'll deal with it as it comes."
Not exactly reassuring.
But alive.
He's alive.
I push off the wall, move toward the table on shaky legs.
Gunnar looks smaller somehow.
Diminished.
Pale and still, bandages wrapped around his torso, IV lines running into his arm.
But his chest is moving.
Rising and falling with each breath.
Alive.
