“I said I’m not going anywhere.” He was closer now. “You can treat me right here.”
Someone else answered him, sharper. “You don’t get to make that call.”
Another voice—calmer, professional. “Sir, you’ve got burns that?—”
“I said I’m staying.”
The words landed with a stubborn finality that my fogged brain latched onto like a lifeline.
Cool, dry air filled my lungs before I was ready for it. The faintly metallic taste made me wince, my first instinct to fight it—until I realized there was nothing to fight.
I was breathing on my own.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Light followed sound, sliding in under my eyelids until I blinked them open.
The ceiling above me was white and too close, the light flattened and unforgiving. My eyes burned as if I’d been crying for hours, though I couldn’t remember doing that. My throat was scraped down to something tender and swollen, and when I swallowed, it hurt.
My sluggish brain struggled to process. Hospital?
No. No hospital on Hatterwick.
The clinic.
Something tugged lightly at my face when I shifted again. I lifted a hand, disoriented, and stopped when warm fingers closed over mine.
“Madden. Hey. Easy. You’re okay.”
Rios’s voice was right there. Close enough that I felt it vibrate through his chest where he leaned over me. I turned my head carefully this time, slower, and found him standing at the side of the bed, one hand gripping the rail like he’d anchored himself there and refused to budge.
Only now I saw why someone had tried to move him.
He looked… wrecked. Soot streaked the side of his jaw and his neck, smudged into the collar of his shirt, which was burned through in places. One sleeve had been cut clean off, revealing skin that was red and shiny, already swelling. His wrist was wrapped in fresh gauze, the white stark against the grime.
A nurse stood a step behind him, clearly mid-task, clearly not winning whatever argument had just been happening.
“You’re okay,” he said again, like he needed me to hear it. “You’re at the clinic.”
I tried to speak. What came out was barely sound.
He leaned closer. “Don’t push it.”
I let my head sink back into the pillow, the effort of holding it up suddenly too much. My chest clamped tight, like there wasn’t quite enough room inside it, even with the oxygen flowing. The mask fogged faintly with each breath.
“What… happened?” I asked, the words rough.
His jaw tightened a tiny fraction, but I saw it beneath the scruff shading his jaw. “There was a fire.”
The word landed with a strange lack of impact. Fire was abstract. Fire was something that happened to other people.
Memory stirred anyway—oppressive heat. The air itself turning against me. The latch that wouldn’t move no matter how hard I pulled.
