I wanted to say his name, but my throat wouldn’t work.
Someone pressed a mask to my face. Cold air rushed in, sweet and chemical. A hand brushed the hair off my forehead, slow and trembling.
I drifted in and out; the world flickering like a busted TV.
Each time I woke, Wrecker was there, holding my hand. Sometimes he was crying. Sometimes he was swearing at the ceiling. Sometimes he just stared, unblinking, as if he could hold me to earth by willpower alone.
Once, I tried to smile. My face barely moved, but he noticed.
He bent down, mouth close to my ear. “Stay,” he said. “Just stay.”
So I did.
I woke to the sound of my own breath—wet, uneven, a hollow little whistle that didn’t match the rhythm in my dreams. The ceiling above me was off-white and covered with raised dots, the kind of tile you see in schools and hospitals and nowhere else onearth. There was a tube in my nose and tape all over my face. The air smelled like sanitizer and something sharper, the animal tang of blood.
For a minute, I couldn’t remember where I was, or even who I was. Then I heard him.
“Hey, little bird,” Wrecker said, voice soft enough not to shatter me. He was sitting in a chair so tiny his knees were nearly to his chin. “Don’t move. Doc’s right outside.”
He looked like he hadn’t slept in a week, his stubble gone from designer to derelict, hair sticking out in every direction. His hands were clasped together, knuckles white, forearms streaked with lines that could have been soot or grease or dried blood.
I tried to sit up, but it was like someone had taken a cheese grater to my ribs and then wrapped them in barbed wire.
“Easy,” he said, and his hand was on my shoulder before I could even flinch.
Doc strode in, a clipboard in one hand and a scowl on his face. Black-rimmed glasses on, looking like a thrift store Clark Kent. His scrubs looked like they’d come out of the wash ten minutes ago. He put down the clipboard, took out a penlight, and flashed it in my eyes.
“Name?” he said, voice brisk.
“Parker Reid,” I croaked.
“Date?”
“Sorry, Wrecker and I are exclusive.” I coughed out on a grin. This guy. My brain was fuzzy, but Doc was a guy who didn't smile nearly enough. Clearly, I hadn't changed that.
Wrecker coughed into his hand.
I thought hard. “Sorry, sometimes I joke. December. Probably?”
Doc still didn’t smile. “Good enough.” He pulled the penlight away and checked my pulse, his touch impersonal but not unkind.
“Where’s Rocket?” I whispered.
“Dog’s fine,” Wrecker said immediately. “He’s with Maddie.”
“Is she—?”
“She’s fine, too. She got hit with some flying debris, nothing serious. Paramedics checked her out. Put her on a diet of grilled cheese. Her words, not mine.”
Doc rolled up the blanket, revealing my left arm encased in a brace the color of blue Gatorade. “You took a big hit, Parker. Three broken ribs on your left side, one of which punctured a lung. Broken ulna. some superficial burns, and a lot of cuts. The lung’s already sealing up, shifter healing, you know. The area of most concern was the head injury you sustained. You had serious brain swelling that should have ended you. It was there, then it wasn’t.” You’re a goddamn walking miracle. Everything's healing quicker than…He checked the monitor by my bed. “Maybe Menace’s angel friend made a stop by the room,” he muttered to himself.
I tried to laugh, but it hurt too much. “Guess my luck is changing,” I said, and tasted copper at the back of my throat.
Doc handed me a cup with a straw. “Sip. Small sips.”
I drank, each swallow burning all the way down.
“You remember what happened?” Doc asked.
