CHAPTER 4
I wake to white. Just white. My eyes burn from the brightness, and for a moment I think I'm back in The Pit where every once in a while, just for kicks, they'd keep the lights on twenty-four seven.
But this ceiling has tiles. Neat little squares with pinprick holes.
Hospital ceiling.
The room comes into focus slowly—monitors with green lines pulsing, an IV stand with clear bags hanging, chairs sitting empty against the wall. Sunlight cuts through half-closed blinds, hitting the floor at an angle that tells me it's late afternoon. Wrong time of day from what I remember. Wrong quality of light altogether.
My body feels hollowed out, like someone scooped everything important from inside me and left just enough to keep breathing. Thick bandages wrap my chest where the brand sits. I can feel the heaviness of surgical dressing, the pull of tape against my skin.
My hand reaches for my phone without thinking, muscle memory from another life. Not there. Nothing's there. Just thin hospital sheets and the plastic rail of a bed that isn't mine.
The panic hits like a sledgehammer as the heart monitor betrays me, beeping faster, louder.
I try to sit up, and pain shoots through my chest like I've been stabbed.
Fuck this.
I yank the IV from my arm, blood spattering across white sheets as I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. The room tilts dangerously, the floor seeming to rise up to meet me before falling away again.
Alarms start blaring. High-pitched, insistent.
Two nurses rush in, their faces showing professional concern but not surprise. One presses me back against the pillows while the other checks the monitors, silencing the alarm.
"Mr. Kane, you need to stay in bed," the first nurse says, her voice steady. "You've had major surgery to remove infected tissue. Your body needs time to recover."
"Where's Savannah?" I demand, my voice rougher than I expected, throat raw from what must have been a breathing tube. "Where's my sister?"
The nurses exchange a glance I don't like. The kind of look people give when they're deciding how much truth you can handle.
"I'll get the doctor to come speak with you," the second nurse says, already backing toward the door. "He can explain everything about your condition."
"I don't give a shit about my condition," I say, trying again to sit up despite the first nurse's restraining hand. "Where's my family?"
"Please try to remain calm, Mr. Kane. The doctor will be here shortly to answer your questions."
They both exit quickly, the door clicking shut behind them. I'm alone again with the beeping machines and questions burning holes in my skull.
A little while later the door opens again, but it's not the doctor who walks in.
It's Brick.
He's wearing civilian clothes—jeans, a plain black t-shirt, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. No cut or patches. Nothing identifying him as Badlands.
He looks smaller somehow, outside the clubhouse.
Less mythic.
He pulls a chair close to the bed, sits, holds a cup of coffee in his hand as I struggle with reality.
"Where's Savannah? Where's Mercy?"
Brick's face remains impassive, weathered like the side of a cliff that's seen too many storms. He takes a sip of coffee before answering. "That brand got infected. Fever spiked to 104. You started convulsing in your room. Dusty drove you to Glendive Medical Center, but you got worse. Savannah called in Ashby resources—private medical transport to Mayo Clinic. That's where you are now. Minnesota."
"Minnesota?" What the fuck.
"You’ve been out six days," Brick continues. "Three surgeries to clean the infection. Sepsis hit your bloodstream. They told us you were dying. Actually," he amends. "You did die. Once. For about twenty seconds. But they brought you back. Cash Ashby's involved now," Brick says. Irritation, not sympathy leaking through in his voice. "Called social services on us. You were convulsing pretty much at the same moment they showed up at the Badlands' gate. It was a fucking shit show. Mercy screaming, Savannah screaming. Sheriff fucking yelling at us with a bullhorn. Cash Ashby smirking like the asshole he is as we were carrying you down to Dusty's car. He's the onewho reported Mercy living at the clubhouse. Temporary custody hearing happened five days ago."
