Even as I spoke, my fingers remained on her small frame—mapping her condition through heat, through breath, through the fragile rise and fall of her chest.
I crouched fully beside the bed, lowering myself so I wouldn’t have to reach awkwardly for her.
My hands slid carefully along her arms until I found her small fingers again.
They were still burning.
“Come on, sweetheart,” I whispered. “We’re going home.”
She made a weak sound—something between a whimper and a tired breath—and tried to move.
I helped her immediately.
Her tiny fingers curled around mine with surprising strength for someone so small and sick, gripping like she was afraid I might disappear if she let go.
That grip—
It broke something in me every time.
“I’ve got you,” I murmured, tightening my hold just slightly so she could feel me. “I’ve got you.”
Her head tilted against my arm as she tried to stand, legs unsteady, balance completely gone. I shifted instantly, bracing her weight against my side without hesitation.
She was light.
She sagged harder against my side, each uneven breath warm against my arm.
“It’s okay,” I whispered, brushing my fingers lightly against her hairline.
I guided her carefully toward the door.
My cane swept ahead in wide, controlled arcs, marking distance, detecting obstacles before they could become problems.
My other hand stayed locked with hers.
We moved slowly through the clinic.
Then the hallway.
The familiar echo of the school wrapping around us like a memory I had already learned by heart.
Even with worry clawing at my chest, I counted without thinking.
Twenty-two steps to the main doors. Seven more down the ramp.
Outside, the air changed immediately.
Zara leaned heavier against me now, her strength fading in small waves.
I adjusted my grip without thinking.
I reached into my pocket with my free hand, unlocking my phone through voice command.
“Request Uber,” I said quietly.
The assistant confirmed.
We wouldn’t be waiting long.
