I open my eyes.
Monitors are clustered beside the bed across from me, their screens populated with numbers and waveforms I don’t understand.
Rolan lies in it. The hospital gown exposes his shoulders. Thick bandaging encases the left one, layers of white gauze darkened at the center where blood has seeped through.
His face carries a pallor I’ve never seen on him before. An oxygen cannula traces the line of his jaw. His hands rest at his sides, motionless.
Four rounds struck him during the warehouse assault.
The doctor came and explained the situation: two absorbed by the ballistic vest, which prevented penetration but generated sufficient force to fracture three ribs and bruise the surrounding tissue extensively.
A third grazed his left flank. The wound was superficial and easily sutured.
The fourth, the one that felled him, entered through his shoulder and exited cleanly but severed a minor artery in the process. The blood loss was substantial.
I, on the other hand, was released within an hour. I received painkillers for the bruising along my wrists and shoulder where I struck the concrete floor, a cursory examination that confirmed nothing was broken, and a recommendation for rest that I acknowledged and immediately disregarded.
They offered me a bed in an adjacent room, and I declined — as if I could lie in a separate room, behind a separate door, and listen to silence instead of the rhythmic confirmation that Rolan was still breathing.
They brought me a chair instead. I haven’t left it since.
The nights fragment into intervals.
I sleep for an hour, maybe more, then wake up to find his hand still closed in mine and the monitors sustaining their quiet, faithful percussion.
Around two in the morning, I make the journey back to the estate to check on Anya.
The hallway is dim, illuminated only by the faint glow from the baseboard lights. My footsteps brush against the floor, my body running on the fumes of adrenaline that burned out hours ago.
I push her door open gently.
She’s not asleep.
The moment she sees me, her face crumbles.
Her chin trembles, her eyes flood, and a sound escapes her that I have never heard from this child before.
She starts to get up, and I cross the room in three steps. She’s in my arms before either of us has said a word.
“I’m here,” I whisper into her hair. “I’m here, sweetheart. I’m right here.”
She cries. Her small body shakes against mine, her fingers gripping my shirt with a ferocity that would be painful if I could feel anything right now beyond the overwhelming, chest-crushing need to make this better.
“I thought” — she gasps between sobs — “I thought you weren’t… I thought you left too?—”
“No.” I pull back just enough to see her face — blotchy,tear-streaked, devastated. I take it in my hands and hold her gaze with everything I have. “No, Anya. I’m not going anywhere.” I swallow and speak around the growing lump in my throat. “I love you, Anya. I love you so much.”
“I love you too, Ellie.” She hugs me again. We stay like that for a few minutes, enjoying the moment.
“Ellie, where is Papa?” My body stiffens. I knew she was going to ask, but that doesn’t make it easier.
“He got hurt sweetie.” My voice cracks, and I feel the tears building behind my own eyes. “He was very brave, and he got hurt helping to bring me home, but the doctor fixed him up and he’s resting now. He just needs to sleep for a while so his body can heal. He’s going to be okay.”
“Like when I had the fever?”
“Exactly like when you had the fever. Remember how you slept for a long time and then you woke up and felt better? That’s what Papa is doing right now.”
“Did you see him?” she asks.
