After parking, I spread my equipment across the table and move through my usual checks—batteries charged, lenses clean, controls responsive. My hands follow the routine automatically. I tell myself I’m being practical. That I need to make sure everything’s ready before New Mexico. But between tomorrow and the desert, there’s still one conversation I need to have. And I don’t want to leave without saying the things that matter.
Thirty
Snacks
Nora
The next morning, I wake up slumped in a stiff hospital chair. My neck is bent at an angle it was never meant to hold for an extended period of time while the bitter aftertaste of terrible coffee clings to my tongue. For one blissful second, I don’t know where I am until the antiseptic smell and pale blue privacy curtains snap everything back into place. Right. Hospital.
I slipped in before sunrise while Mom was down the hall finishing one last test. I’d told myself I was just going to sit for a minute. Rest my eyes for half a second. The chair clearly had other plans.
My phone lies face down in my lap, its battery barely hanging on. I rub at my eyes and stretch carefully, my joints protesting as I straighten. Machines hum softly around me, carts roll down the corridor, and I let myself breathe it all in—until the door creaks open and I sit up instantly, alert.
“You’re awake. I was starting to think you’d sleep through lunch,” Mom says.
“The chair was just so comfortable,” I mumble, pushing myself upright. “Couldn’t keep my eyes open.”
She laughs quietly. “I doubt that. But I’m glad you got some sleep.”
I stand, my legs stiff and uncooperative, and meet her in the middle of the room. I wrap my arms around her and press a kiss to her cheek. “How are you feeling?”
“Tired. Sore. Annoyed. But stable. Which is the important one.” She takes a seat on the bed.
Relief floods through me. I grab my half-empty water bottle and take a sip.
“Nora.”
I freeze, water still in my mouth. She never says my name like that unless she’s about to tell me something I don’t want to hear. I swallow. “Yes?”
“I talked to Miles after you left.”
The bottle nearly slips from my hand. “You… what?”
“He came back into the room.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Why?”
“Because he didn’t chase you,” she cuts in softly. “He sat. Right there.” She taps the arm of the chair beside her bed. “And he apologized.”
My throat tightens. “For what?”
“For upsetting you. For showing up without warning. For caring too much when you didn’t ask him to.”
That’s very Miles of him to do. I stare down at my hands, willing them to tell me why my heart feels too big for my ribs. “What else did he say?”
She peers at me over the rim of her glasses, her gaze sharp—the look of a woman who raised a child alone and survived it. “That he really likes you.”
I swallow hard.
“And that he understands why you ran.”
My thumb picks at the plastic label on the bottle. “I didn’t mean to hurt him,” I say, my voice barely there. “I just?—”
“I know. You were scared.”
A weak laugh slips out. “That obvious?”
“To me?” She reaches for my hand, and guides me to the chair. “Always has been.”
