“He went in alone,” he said. “That stupid, brave old man.”
“He loves her.”
“I know.” Thomas reached for my hand again, squeezed it hard. “I know exactly how he feels.”
A half an hour later, Dr. Müller returned from Otto’s room.
I stood, my heart hammering against my ribs. Thomas tried to sit up, but I pressed him back down.
“He is alive,” Müller said. “I believe he is stable, for now, and his vital signs are improving.”
Relief hit me so hard I nearly collapsed.
“He is not out of danger,” Müller continued. “The next few days will be critical, but he has survived the night. Frankly, that is more than I expected.”
“Can the Baroness see him?”
“Briefly. He will not wake for many hours, but yes. She can see him.”
She was in the kitchen again, staring at the fire. When I told her the news, something broke loose in her face. It wasn’t joy, exactly, but something close to it.
“Help me up,” she said.
We walked to Otto’s room slowly, each step an effort. At the doorway, she stopped.
“I would like to sit with him alone, please.”
I helped her inside and pulled a chair beside where Otto lay, then stepped out, closing the door behind me.
Later, we gathered in the kitchen—those of us who could.
Thomas was propped up in a chair, pale but awake, his good hand wrapped around a cup of tea. The Baroness sat across from him, her ruined handsresting on the table, her face exhausted but calm. Bisch stood by the window, still watching the road.
Otto was alive, Thomas was recovering, and the Baroness was broken but unbowed.
We had survived the night.
“They will be looking for us,” Bisch said finally. “They will have people searching.”
“Let them search,” the Baroness said. “We are in no condition to run, and I am tired of running.”
“Then we rest,” I said. “We heal and figure out our next move when we’re strong enough to make one.”
20
Thomas
Otto died on the second day. I was the one who found him.
I had been restless all morning, unable to sit still despite the wound in my shoulder that screamed every time I moved. Will kept telling me to rest, to let my body heal, but resting felt like surrender or giving in to the fear that had been clawing at my chest since we’d crawled out of that drainage channel.
So I walked through the farmhouse from room to room, checking on everyone because it was the only thing I could think to do that felt like action.
The Baroness sat on the couch in the living room, a cup of untouched tea cooling on the end table. Bisch was in his usual spot standing guard by the window, watching the road the way he’d been watching it for two days straight. Will was asleep in the chair beside my bed, finally giving in to exhaustion after I’d insisted I was fine. I told him I didn’tneed watching and that he should get some rest, but he refused to climb into bed.
Otto was in the back room, hooked up to machines that beeped and hummed.
I stood in the doorway and listened for the steady rhythm of the machines.
