Not directly. Not with my own hands. But I was part of the world that broke her. Part of the machine that chewed her up and spit her out and left her not being able to trust anyone.
The guilt settles in my chest like a stone.
"The doctor said you need to stay still for three days."
She's talking fast now. The words tumbling out one after another. Like she's trying to fill the silence before it swallows her whole.
"Lorenzo sent him. Dr. Marchetti. He removed the bullet. Said it missed your kidney by about an inch. You're lucky. Or unlucky, depending on how you look at it."
She's not looking at me anymore.
Her eyes are fixed on a spot somewhere above my head. The wall. The ceiling. Anywhere but my face.
"You need antibiotics twice a day. Morning and night. And pain medication every six hours. I have both. The doctor left them."
Her hands are moving. Fidgeting. Picking at the hem of her shirt.
"The wound needs to be cleaned every twelve hours. He showed me how. It's not—it's not complicated. Just saline and fresh bandages. I can do it."
She's nervous.
The realization hits me like a second bullet.
Marina Reeves. The woman who slapped me across the face the first time we met. The woman who stared down Lorenzo Sartori without flinching. The woman who survived a gunshot wound and rebuilt her entire life from scratch.
She's nervous.
Because of me.
I hate myself for it.
"There are signs of infection to watch for," she continues. Her voice is getting faster. Higher. "Fever. Redness around the wound. Swelling. Discharge. If any of that happens, I'm supposed to call the doctor immediately. He left his number."
She's pacing now. Short, tight steps. Back and forth beside the bed.
"You can't eat solid food for the first twenty-four hours. Just liquids. Broth. Water. Maybe some juice if you can keep it down. After that, we can try something light. Toast. Crackers."
Her right hand curls into a fist at her side.
"Marina."
She doesn't stop.
"The doctor said the next forty-eight hours are critical. If you make it through without infection, you should be fine. Well, not fine. But alive. Functional. Able to be moved."
"Marina."
"Lorenzo's sending someone to pick you up. In forty-eight hours. Maybe sooner if you're stable enough. Sophia said?—"
"Marina."
She stops.
Her eyes finally meet mine.
The fear in them makes my chest ache.
"I need to move to the couch."
