I want to tell her that nothing out here survives forever, that mountains only keep you safe until they don’t, but Julian makes a soft sound beside me—a little sigh in his sleep—and I let the thought go.
The road curves sharply, and pain spikes white-hot through my leg. I bite down hard enough that my jaw aches.
“Almost there,” Kate reassures me, even though I know we’re not. “Just stay with me.”
I try, I really do, but the last thing I catalog is the steady rhythm of the car, the dogs’ eyes never leaving me, and Julian breathing—proof that whatever else I’ve destroyed in my life, I got one thing right. Then the world slips sideways again, and I’m gone.
Hands pull me back this time. My eyes open to harsh white light and the smell of jet fuel cutting through the cold air. Wind whips across my face, sharp enough to sting. I’m being lifted, my weight redistributed with practiced ease. Someone counts under their breath while another gives short instructions I can’t quite make out.
“Easy—watch the leg.”
“On three.”
“Got him.”
That’s Morgan efficiency. Even half-dead, I recognize it. I try to move and orient myself, but my body refuses to cooperate. I grunt when pain flares, like it’s reminding me it still owns me.
“Hey,” Kate coos immediately, her voice right there. I turn my head enough to see her—hair plastered to her face, jacket too thin for this altitude, eyes red-rimmed but fierce.
“You’re okay. We’re almost done.”
Her hand finds mine, and she doesn’t let go. Julian is strapped to her chest in a carrier. He cries softly and is quickly soothed, the sound cutting off as if someone has flipped a switch.
The jet’s ramp yawns open in front of us as warm air spills out, thick with antiseptic and recycled oxygen. Inside, everything is too bright, and I momentarily shut my eyes. I register the uniforms of the flight attendants just as a man in scrubs steps forward, already gloved and assessing me with a quick, clinical sweep of his eyes.
“Ryder Morgan?” he asks.
I give a minimal nod.
“He has a bullet wound to the stomach and leg. I think he’s bleeding internally and has been in and out for the past two hours,” Kate explains fast.
The surgeon nods once. “We’ve got him.”
They settle me onto something padded, probably a gurney. Straps click into place over my chest and legs—firm but not restrictive—just as someone begins to cut away what’s left of my shirt.
“Stay,” I rasp, tightening my hold around Kate’s hand.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she reassures me immediately. “I promise.”
They move us deeper into the plane, and equipment hums to life. I catch glimpses of monitors, IV lines, and gloved hands moving with practiced speed. My head is lifted gently and settled against something warm and solid that I recognize as Kate’s lap.
She freezes for half a second like she doesn’t know if she’s allowed, then adjusts instinctively—one hand sliding into my hair, the other braced against my shoulder to keep me steady as the plane shudders.
“There,” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”
I get a shot of anesthesia, and the last thing I register is Kate’s hand in my hair and Julian’s baby scent around me.
What drags me back from the fog this time are the plane’s wheels hitting the runway with a jolt that rattles straight through me.
“Easy,” Kate murmurs. “We’re landing.”
Her thumb presses into my temple, her palm warm against my skin. I manage to turn my head just enough to look at her.
“Hey,” I try to say, but it comes out as breath.
She leans closer. “I’m here.”
That reassurance makes me smile through the pain. The plane slows, vibration easing, the world settling into something almost still. It’s a blur of activity getting off the plane, and shortly after, I’m welcomed to Texas by unmistakable laughter, cutting through the air like a blade I’ve known my whole life.
