I walk to the bed. I don’t cry. I don’t collapse.
I take his hand. His skin is warm.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“You clean up nice,” he mumbles, his eyes drifting shut and then forcing open again.
“You look terrible.”
“Feel terrible.” He squeezes my hand. Weak, but there. “Did we win?”
“We survived,” I say. “And we have a lead.”
“Good.” He sighs, the tension finally leaving his frame. “That’s good.”
“Sleep, Jackson.”
“Not yet.” He fights the drugs. “Promised you.”
“We have time,” I say, brushing the hair off his forehead. “We have all the time in the world. Just sleep.”
He looks at me one last time. “You stayed.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
He nods, just a fraction. And then, finally, he sleeps.
I pull a chair up to the bed. I sit down. I keep his hand in mine.
I watch the monitor. I count the beats.
One. Two. Three.
It’s the most beautiful pattern I’ve ever seen.
TWENTY-TWO
Jackson
VIGIL
The world clawsits way back into focus, all sharp edges and broken lines.
Pain comes next. Not the fire of impact, not the moment it went in—but the aftermath. A deep, bone-deep throb that radiates from my hip to my shoulder, heavy enough to pin me to the mattress, like gravity has doubled and I’m the only one who feels it. I blink. The ceiling is white. Textured. Expensive.
Not a hospital. Too quiet. No PA announcements, no squeak of rubber soles on linoleum. Just the rhythmichiss-clickof an oxygen concentrator and the steady beep of a cardiac monitor.
I try to sit.
Bad idea.
The muscles in my core seize, locking around the injury like a vice. A groan tears its way out of my throat, unauthorized and ragged. Gray spots dance in my vision.
“Easy, tiger.”
A hand presses against my good shoulder. Heavy. Firm.
Brass.
