And for the first time, I understand. Not just that this is bad, not just that it’s bigger than we thought. But that whatever we’re dealing with is calculated, clinical, and intentional. This isn’t chaos. It’s design.
“We’re almost there,” Scott calls from the front.
I nod, even though he can’t see me.
“Hey,” I say softly to her. “Stay with me just a little longer, okay? You’re doing so good.”
Her hand finds my wrist again, even looser than before. “Tired,” she whispers.
“I know,” I say. “But don’t go to sleep yet. Stay with me.”
Her eyes flicker then settle on me. Still here, still fighting.
I keep one hand on her, grounding her, while the other adjusts the masks, checks her pulse again, and keeps her anchored to this moment instead of the one she just came from.
Behind her, Alex doesn’t move or speak. But I don’t need him to. Because the silence now isn’t distance. For weeks, I’ve felt like something big was coming. But it isn’t.
It’s already here.
Chapter 21
Liv
The hospital is uncomfortably bright, clean, and normal. It doesn’t match what just happened.
I’ve been standing in the ER’s breakroom, by myself, and scrubbing my hands in the little kitchenette style sink longer than I need to. The water is hot enough that it stings my skin.
One of the ER nurses took one look at me and shuttled me in here as soon as she could. I’m guessing that I looked as shitty as I felt. Scott oversaw the transfer while I was told, “take a moment, honey, before we have an additional patient on our hands.”
That’s probably fair.
Now the stark white walls feel like they’re closing in on me. And the scent of antiseptic clings to everything in a disorienting way, like it can erase what we brought in with us.
It can’t.
Because her voice is still in my head. And the way her hand felt on my wrist. The way she said “I couldn’t move” like it was the worst part. Not the pain or the violence. The stillness.
I shut the water off harder than I mean to. But the silence that follows feels heavier than the noise ever did.
“She’s stable.”
I turn; Alex stands in the doorway.
For a second, I don’t recognize him. Not because he looks different, but because he feels different.
There’s something in his posture. It’s tight and controlled, like he’s holding something back with everything that he’s got. His jacket is still on, but it hangs open now, like he wanted to be parted from the way he was dressed when the ambulance pulled into the bay. His sleeves are pushed up just enough to show the tension in his forearms and the faint flex of muscle under skin that’s gone rigid.
“Stable?” I ask.
He steps into the breakroom fully, letting the door swing shut behind him. “Stable enough,” he says. “She made it through intake, kept talking through it. Then it got to be too much for her. They’ve got her sedated.”
Sedated.
My heart hammers against my ribcage.
“She asked for it,” he adds, quieter now. “They didn’t force it. It’s just to help her sleep.”
That helps… a little.
