But she hears it.
Her eyes flutter open.
Land on me.
And then she's crying.
"Gunnar." She's out of the chair in an instant, hands cupping my face, tears streaming down her cheeks. "Oh god, Gunnar. You're awake. You're really awake."
"Hey." My voice is still a wreck. "Don't... cry..."
"Don't cry? Don't cry?" She laughs through her tears, the sound watery and broken. "You've been unconscious for almost four days. You spiked a fever and we thought—I thought?—"
She can't finish.
Just presses her forehead to mine and cries.
Four days.
I've been out for four days.
"I'm here," I manage. "I'm okay."
"You almost weren't. You almost—" She pulls back, wipes her eyes. "God, I was so scared. When they brought you in, there was so much blood, and the knife was still?—"
"I remember." Fragments, at least. "The raid. I was trying to get to the van. The kids."
Her face falls.
That tells me everything.
"They got away," I say.
"Yes. The traffickers escaped with the children." She squeezes my hand. "But that's not your fault. You almost died trying to save them."
"Almost isn't good enough."
"It's going to have to be. For now." Her voice is firm. "Right now, the only thing that matters is that you're alive. Everything else can wait."
I want to argue.
Want to tell her that those kids can't wait.
But my body has other ideas.
Even this brief conversation has exhausted me.
My eyelids feel like they're weighted down.
"Tired," I admit.
"That's the sedation wearing off. They kept you under to help you heal." She strokes my hair. "Sleep if you need to. I'll be here when you wake up."
"You've been here... the whole time?"
"Where else would I be?"
The answer is so simple.
