“Breathe? I am breathing!”
"You took a hit to the head and lost consciousness. We have to take that very seriously, but you’re stable. Now, we need you strong for them, okay?"
Them.
The word is like a knife finding a mark in my heart, in my head, in my abdomen. “I am strong.”
For a moment I can’t process anything beyond panic— my sons. Clay gone. Me—alone.
The younger nurse tries to interject. “You’re fine, you’re fine.” But her voice is too high to be convincing.
My vision tunnels, the edges of the room going fuzzy with pressure and fear. "Where are they?"
The door clicks open.
I snap my gaze up to find a man in a blue uniform standing at the threshold, his belt clanking with objects. A radio. Something that could be a taser. A silvery badge. He is not a henchman. Not a soldier.
Police officer?
The older nurse glances over her shoulder at him, then back at me, smiling oddly.
"Is she clear to move?" he asks, tone flat with practised formality. I hate police officers almost as much as Ihate hospitals.
Where. Is. Clay?
The nurses exchange a look of significance, that says everything and nothing, and now Ican’tbreathe. This is what they do, what they always do, they treat me like a child. Like I can’t handle it. When Clay isn’t present, I’m a ward.
A pretty little burden.
"If you feel ready, you can stand," the older nurse says. "But take it slow."
I’m already swinging my legs out of the bed, ignoring the flare in my muscles. The dull ache of overuse, of exertion, and trauma. The hospital gown is stiff and scratchy, and when I look at my arms, they are marred with bruises—shades of blue, purple, and yellow. I barely notice the cold on my skin or the vertigo threatening to tip me over. "Where are my babies?" I bark, my hands shaking violently.
The officer’s expression hardens for a second, but he doesn’t approach. "I’m Officer Blackborn. I will escort you to the paediatric ward soon, but there’s something you need to know." He looks at the nurses. “A moment, please.”
My eyes widen.
Unknown fear wraps around my throat.
The nurses hesitate, then obey with a soft nod, leaving the two of us. The moment they’re gone, the room is suddenly freezing cold. All the hairs on my skin rise.
The door whispers shut behind him.
He takes one measured step. "Can you recall anything before losing consciousness?" His gaze dissects my face, searching for bullshit.
My fingers curl into fists at my sides, knuckles whitening. My jaw locks, teeth grinding against each other as something primal rises in my chest—a need to lunge across the space between us, to force whatever terrible truth he's withholdingout into the open. Just tell me! Stop circling and tell me what's happened to them!
I withhold all that erratic behaviour and tremble; the effort to remain still takes every inch of strength from me. Digging through my brain, I pull up images from today. The ride in the SUV, the world exploding in light and sound, the rush of wind and blood.
"There was an accident," I say, stifling my anger, but frozen with the need to purge it. "Someone hit us."
He nods. "We have a statement from Mr Butcher.”
Clay. I want Clay."Is he okay?"
“Clay Butcher?”
“Yes!” I bite out.
