The only thing that makes this one different is the girl asleep against my side.
Tallulah snores.
Not loud. Just a soft, whistling little sound at the end of each exhale that I’ve come to think of as proof of life.
She’s curled up half on the narrow hospital bed, half on me, IV taped to the back of her hand, hair a wild mess over my arm. I’m perched on the edge of the mattress, boots on the floor, shoulder screaming at me from where I took the hit in the alley.
I’d sit like this for a month if it meant she stayed breathing.
The nurse tried to kick me out once.
Cotton appeared in the doorway two minutes later, pregnant and terrifying, and somehow the issue resolved itself without me saying a word.
Now the staff just pretend they don’t see me—quite a feat considering my size.
I stroke my thumb over her knuckles, watching the steady rise and fall of her chest.
The door eases open with a soft click.
Jack steps in, a Styrofoam cup in each hand. He looks like he’s walked through a war and came out the other side on caffeine and spite alone.
He hands me one of the cups.
“Coffee,” he says. “Or somethin’ adjacent.”
I take it with my free hand.
“Thanks,” I say.
He leans against the wall near the window, hat tipped back, eyes on Tallulah.
“She doin’ okay?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “Docs say she’ll be groggy for a bit, but the stuff’s out of her system. No lasting damage.”
“Physically,” he says.
I know what he means. I also know there’s no point in trying to predict the shape of those scars yet.
“We’ll handle it,” I say.
He nods.
Silence stretches, companionable and heavy.
Down the hall, a cart squeaks. Somewhere, a TV mutters the late-night news. Snow brushes against the window in lazy, drifting flakes.
“Got somethin’ for you,” Jack says after a minute.
He pulls a folded printout from the inside of his jacket and holds it out. I shift just enough to take it without jostling Tallulah.
It’s a still from a security camera. Not Floyd’s—this is grainier, darker, a wider street.
“Three hours after the toy thing went sideways,” he says. “Richmond. Parking lot outside a big-box store.”
The image is bad, but I know that profile now—the tilt of the head, the casual way he walks, like he’s never in a hurry even when he should be.
Henry.
