“For the next round,” I finished. My voice was steadier, but it felt raw inside.
He watched me eat, as if he could will the calories into me by the force of his concern. I managed a few bites, but each swallow felt like pushing boulders through a garden hose.
I cleared my throat. “I need to pee.” I hadn’t realized how urgently until the words left my mouth.
Burke straightened, business mode activated. “Bathroom’s across the hall. You want an arm?”
“No offense, but I’d rather crawl than piss myself in front of you.”
He grinned, but there was pride in his eyes. “Roger that.”
Getting upright was a multi-phase process. I braced my hands on the bed, counted to three, then pushed. The pain made everything white for a second, but I stayed conscious.
Small victories.
Burke hovered, close enough to catch me but not so close that I felt caged. I shuffled into the hallway, moving like an arthritic octogenarian. Every step made my side flare, but I refused to cry out.
The bathroom was old but clean, with a claw-foot tub and a mirror that had seen better decades. I locked the door and leaned against the sink, breathing hard.
Only then did I look up.
The face in the mirror was a stranger’s. The left side was a swollen continent, purple and green and yellow, orbiting a bloodshot eye that barely opened. My lip was crusted black, split in two places. There were scrapes along my jaw, and a bruise that arched over my cheekbone like a half-moon.
I stared, trying to reconcile this with the memory of who I used to be. Every past version of myself flickered through my mind: kid with the bowl cut and scabbed knees, teen with headphones and a chip on his shoulder, college hopeful withplans and dreams and no idea how easily a future could be erased.
I didn’t cry. There was no room left for that.
After a minute, I pissed—awkward and painful but at least I didn’t faint—and splashed water on my face. When I finished, I stood there, gripping the edge of the sink, staring at the wreckage.
The door was slightly ajar. In the mirror’s reflection, I saw Burke, arms folded, leaning in the hall like a bouncer at a club nobody wanted to get into. He didn’t say anything, didn’t come closer.
I didn’t know if I was talking to him or to myself, but I said it anyway: “I’m never going back there. I don’t care what it takes.”
My voice didn’t shake. That surprised me most of all.
Burke didn’t flinch, didn’t smile, didn’t do anything but nod, once, slow and solemn. The kind of nod that meant a promise was being made, even if we hadn’t worked out the details yet.
I shuffled back to the room, and Burke followed, silent and steady.
He helped me ease onto the bed. I winced, then laughed a little because it hurt so bad. “This is what I get for skipping P.E. all those years,” I said.
He let out a breath, and I realized he’d been holding it the whole time. “You’re doing great,” he said.
“You don’t have to baby me,” I said. “I’m not—” I stopped, not sure how to finish that sentence.
He finished it for me: “You’re not helpless. I know.”
We let the silence sit for a while, companionable in its own weird way.
After a while, I said, “You really think Dennis won’t come looking?”
His jaw ticked. “If he does, he’ll regret it. Rawley’s got half the ex-military in Montana on speed dial. You’re not going anywhere.”
The promise settled over me, heavy and warm. It didn’t fix anything, not really, but it was a start.
I finished the toast, one bite at a time, and when I was done, Burke took the tray and set it on the dresser. He came back, standing in the doorway with his hands shoved into his pockets.
“I’m not going to pretend I know what you need,” he said, voice rough. “But if you want to talk, or yell, or just sit and watch Netflix until your eyes fall out, I’ll be here.”
