“I thought I told you not to come in today.”
“I needed the distraction,” I reply.
“Go home,” she says.
“And be melancholic there? No way. They won’t allow me to be in the infirmary unless there’s a critical update, so I’m here. Get over it,” I rebuke.
“Jeez, okay. Lots of pent-up anger—”
“Ofa—”
“Understandably so! I get it. If being here helps, then stay.”
She turns to leave me alone but halts mid-stride. Her look is apprehensive.
“Have you considered goin’ to therapy?” she asks.
“Please—”
“Can you hear me out for fuck’s sake?” Ofa clips, shutting me up.
(Consider my lips thoroughly sealed.)
“We have several therapists here. Utilize them, please? You’ve been through a lot, and it hit you all at once. Therapy might be what you need to let it out. I attended when I arrived here alone, and ensured Mafu did when he came along.”
“Mafu went to therapy?” It doesn’t seem like him.
“He’s still going. Don’t tell him I told you,” she says, and I agree with a curt nod. “Just . . . consider it, please?”
“Sure,” I concede. “I’m sorry for . . . taking this out on you.”
“Don’t sweat it. Now get to work.”
Matt brushes past Ofa on her way out, muttering a slew of apologies, and darts straight for me. There’s urgency in his eyes. My nightmare has come true. One of them is dead.
“Don’t—”
My knees give out and buckle under my weight. Matt dives, catching me mid-fall. He helps me back up and locks his arms in place to keep me afloat. His instincts are always on point.
“You okay?”
“What happened?” I ask, instead.
“He’s awake, Atlas. Ezra’s awake.”
The strength in my legs returns with a vengeance. The fields fade away, replacing the surroundings with white walls and the intense smell of rubbing alcohol. I rush to the orderly behind thecounter, startling them half to death. They instinctively clutch the cross draped around their neck and whisper something.
“Ezra Gray. Where is he?”
“And you are?” they ask after smoothing the wrinkles near the cross.
I glare blankly at them.
“A-Atlas MacPherson.”
“What’s your relation to Mr. Gray?”
We kissed (and nothing more). We held out on the conversation until we figured out how to tell Conin, but it never came to pass. The realization sends me scrambling for a response, and I can’t just answer that we’re . . . friends. A best friend is pushing it.
