"Apparently," I reply, trying for a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. "Though I'm not convinced being awake is better than unconscious right now."
He approaches the bed, standing beside Rebecca. "How's he doing?" he asks her, and I notice the easy familiarity between them. They've been spending time together while I've been out.
"Better," she says, checking the IV in my arm. "Fever's gone. Wound's healing cleaner than I expected given the circumstances. He's tough."
"Thompson genes," Dice says with a hint of pride. "Stubborn as hell."
"I'm right here," I remind them, "and fully capable of hearing you talk about me."
They both smile at that, and something in my chest eases. Two people I care about, getting along, safe for the moment.
"You had us worried, bro," Dice says, his tone more serious. "That was a lot of blood you left in the woods."
"Sorry to inconvenience everyone," I say dryly.
Rebecca checks my bandage, her touch gentle but clinical. "The stitches are holding well this time. You'll have a scar, but as long as we keep infection at bay, you should recover fully."
"Thanks to you," I say, catching her eye. "For everything."
Her cheeks color slightly. "Just doing my job."
"We both know it was more than that."
Our eyes hold for a moment too long, and Dice clears his throat.
"Hey, Rebecca, could I get ten minutes alone with my brother? Club business."
She nods, gathering some used supplies. "Of course. I could use some fresh air anyway." She pauses beside my bed on her way out, then leans down and places a quick kiss on my cheek. "Glad you're back with us," she says softly, then she's gone, closing the door behind her.
Dice raises an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing at his lips. "Well, well."
"Shut up," I mutter, but there's no heat in it. "It's not like that."
"Sure it isn't," he says, pulling up a chair beside the bed. "She's only spent the last two days barely leaving your side, checking your fever every hour, changing your bandages, talking to you when she thought you couldn't hear."
I don't know how to respond to that. The thought of Rebecca maintaining that vigil stirs something in me I'm not ready to think about.
"How are you really feeling?" Dice asks, his expression turning serious.
I consider lying, saying I'm fine, but this is Dice. He deserves the truth.
"Broken," I admit. "Literally, like someone dismantled me like a bike and put me back together wrong. Everything hurts. And I'm trying to wrap my head around the fact that I'm now an escaped convict when I was three days from a legitimate release."
Dice nods, understanding in his eyes. "I know. It's fucked up. But you didn't have a choice."
"There are always choices," I say, shifting slightly and wincing at the pain. "I made mine when I decided to run. Now I have to live with it."
"You made the right call," he insists. "Those Irish guys weren't there to rough you up, James. They were there to kill you."
"About that," I say, remembering fragments of conversation from the forest. "You said you dealt with Walsh? What happened?"
Dice runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I recognize from childhood. He's deciding how much to tell me.
"Walsh showed up in Pine Haven about a week before your scheduled release. Reaper—he's the president of the Outlaw Order—called a meeting with him." He pauses. "Walsh agreed to back off, but apparently he'd already put the hit in motion inside the prison. Couldn't—or wouldn't—call it off. He wanted revenge."
"But it's handled now?" I confirm.
"Yeah. Walsh is gone, and he's not coming back. Reaper made that very clear."
