I turn back to Hope, quickly faking a brightness I don’t feel. “Good news. They’re rushing your paperwork. Once we sign, we’ll head to the cabin where we’ll be safe.”
“Safe?” Her attention narrows like a bee drawn to sound. “Why safe?”
“Because the investigators think the fire wasn’t an accident,” I answer, choosing each word with care. I won’t give her Ray’sname, not here. “They want us away from the apartment until things settle. Luka offered a place that has security.”
Her mouth opens, surprise flashing through her eyes. “He’s Luka Barinov?” she asks slowly. “I’ve read about him… something about his shipping company and a federal investigation last year.”
“He’s helping.” I keep my tone even. “Right now, that’s what matters.”
She studies me. She’s always known when I’m softening the truth. I let her look. If she sees anything that worries her, I want to be the first to hear it.
At last, she nods and lets out a shaky breath. “Fine. I won’t fight you on this.”
“Thank you.” I kiss her hairline and step back. “Do you think you can stand for a minute? We should gather your things before the nurse brings the wheelchair.”
“I can stand,” she says, determination stiffening her spine.
I slide an arm around her waist and help her up. She sways once, then finds her balance, her chin lifting. The sunlight touches her cheekbones and turns the blue in her eyes almost silver. I want to hold her here in this bright slot of day and keep the world away. Instead, I help her with her coat.
When we’re finished, she sits again, breathing a touch quick. “How long will we stay with Luka?”
“A few days. Maybe a week. Long enough for the investigators to make a report.”
Before she can reply, movement in the hall pulls my attention. Voices rise in a flurry, followed by the squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. I glance toward the door. A nurse slips inside with a chart pressed tightly to her chest. Her mask sits low for a moment before she hikes it up with a gloved knuckle. Her eyes crease with practiced concern above the mask.
“Morning,” she says gently. “Ready to roll? I’ve got your final forms and a wheelchair waiting.”
“Hi.” I straighten. “We’re ready.”
She checks Hope’s chart, scanning the pages. “Vitals look good. Are you feeling steady?”
“I’m okay,” Hope answers softly.
“Great.” The nurse’s eyes crinkle again. “Let me grab your discharge packet. We’ll sign here, then head to the elevator.”
She moves to the rolling table beside the bed, flips the chart open, and pulls a pen from her pocket. Her hands are quick and sure. She slides the pen toward me.
“If you can sign here, Ms. Bellamy,” she says, tapping the line. “Standard discharge. Follow-up details on page two. Medication reconciliation on page three.”
I reach for the pen, but before it touches the page, the calm shatters. The alarm erupts into a feral scream, slicing through the quiet. Red strobe lights flash in the hall, each pulse cutting across the doorway. The sound crawls down my spine. Hope jumps, startled.
“Stay calm,” the nurse calls out, her voice raised above the noise. “We have a protocol. I’ll get your chair.”
“It’s probably nothing,” I tell Hope, squeezing her hand though my own trembles.
The nurse steps into the hallway and returns with a wheelchair, maneuvering it beside the bed. “We relocate the patients until the head nurse confirms the source of the alarm,” she explains, her tone calm and professional. “You can walk beside the chair and bring the bag.”
The alarm keeps howling, the sound overlapping with pounding footsteps and shouted instructions. Somewhere down the hall, a voice calls for a crash cart. Hope inches forward on the mattress, her teeth pressed into her lower lip, her eyes wide with fear.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper, wrapping an arm under hers. Together we rise. She sways once before lowering herself into the chair with a shaky exhale. I pull the blanket across her knees, tucking it close.
“I’ll grab the bag,” I tell her, turning toward the chair by the window where the canvas tote waits.
The nurse glances at me. “Wait, I still need your signature on the discharge papers. Just the highlighted lines at the bottom. It’ll take two seconds.”
I pivot back to the rolling table. The alarm slams against my skull, the red light pulsing across the floor. I grip the pen. A gurney rattles past the door, metal wheels shrieking, voices clipped short by urgency.
“Ms. Bellamy,” the nurse prompts.
