“Volunteers,” I said. “We recruit some of the townspeople. People with reliable vehicles. We send them out. To the next county over. To Port Blossom, even. They buy what we need. Cash. No insurance, no paperwork. Just a straight-up buy.”
Jake nodded, a flicker of hope in his eyes. “It could work. It’s a risk, but it could work.”
The call with Dr. Evans was more specific, more clinical, and more terrifying. “Knox, it’s not just the suppressants,” she said, her tone clipped. “I’m running low on everything. IV bags, saline solution, broad-spectrum antibiotics, sterile dressings for the burn victims... I’m down to my last box of epinephrine pens. If we have anaphylactic reactions, or a severe allergic response to something without them...” She didn’t need to finish the sentence.
I made a list. A long, detailed list of everything we need. It’s a temporary fix, a bandage on a gaping wound, but it’s something. It’ll tide us over, buy us some time until I can figure out a way to talk to Sheriff Miller of Port Blossom. The man’s a stubborn old coot, but he’ll respond well to money, right? We need those supplies, and we need them fast.
I finish my cigarette, the cherry glowing a fierce red in the darkness. I crush it under my boot. I get back in the car, the smell of smoke clinging to my clothes.
The snow is coming down harder now. I drive slowly, carefully, my eyes scanning the road. And then I see him. A lone figure walking down the side of the road, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his head bowed.
Liam.
I pull up beside him, the car crawling to a stop. I roll down the window. “Get in the car, Bennett.”
He doesn’t look at me, just keeps walking. “Leave me alone.”
“I’m not leaving you out here in this,” I say, my tone leaving no room for argument. “Get in the car.”
He stops, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He walks around to the passenger side and gets in, slamming the door with a force that makes me flinch. He doesn’t say anything. He just stares out the window, his jaw tight.
And then I see it. A single tear traces a path down his cheek, followed by another, and another. He’s crying. Not loud, sobbing cries, but silent, gut-wrenching tears that shake his entire body. It’s a moment of such raw vulnerability that it catches me off guard. This isn’t the angry Alpha who punched me. This is a broken kid.
“I can’t go home,” he says, his voice a choked whisper. “I can’t let my mom see me like this.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft.
“I can’t go back there,” he says, his voice cracking. “To that house. Not after... not after seeing them.”
“I understand.”
“I feel so stupid,” he says, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t go to Jessica’s. I can’t go to the café. It’s all... tainted.”
I think about my house, about Clara waiting for me. “You can come to my place,” I offer. “For the night. Just to get your head straight.”
He turns to me, his eyes red and swollen. “What about your daughter?”
“She won’t mind,” I say, and it’s the truth. Clara has a good heart. She’ll understand.
He shakes his head, a small, jerky motion. “I can’t. I can’t impose.”
“Okay,” I say, changing tactics. “How about Bar 2.0? We can get a drink or something. Just... be somewhere that’s not here. It would be irresponsible of me to let you freeze to death.”
He hesitates for a moment, then nods. “Okay. Thanks.”
The bar is a welcome reprieve from the suffocating tension in the car. It’s loud and crowded, the air thick with the smell of beer and fried food. We find a couple of empty stools at the bar, and I order two whiskeys.
We sit in silence for a while, the noise of the bar a buffer between us. I can feel the anger and hurt rolling off him in waves, but underneath it, there’s a deep, abiding sadness.
“This is a mess,” I say, breaking the silence.
He lets out a harsh, bitter laugh. “That’s the understatement of the year.”
“You’re allowed to be a mess,” I tell him. “You’re allowed to be angry and hurt and confused. Anyone in your position would be.”
He takes a sip of his whiskey, his gaze fixed on the amber liquid. “I know you’re a decent guy,” he says, his voice low. “But sometimes, I really wish I could punch you in the face again.”
I can’t help but laugh. “I get it,” I say, clinking my glass against his. “I really do.”
