Because if I opened my mouth, I might make a sound that belonged to the girl at the grave, not the woman in the OR.
They moved him to ICU.
I went with him as far as I could.
Then there were lines I could not cross. Tasks that belonged to other hands. Policies. Handoffs. The machinery of care moving him away from the surgery that saved him and into the fragile hours that would decide whether it had been enough.
Nate made it too.
Lily found me in the corridor after Nate’s update came down.
She looked wrecked.
So did I.
“Chest and shoulder,” she said. “Bad, but not Dylan bad. They repaired what they needed to, chest tube is in, pressure is responding. ICU too. He’s going to be furious about the hospital gown.”
A laugh broke out of me.
It sounded wrong.
Half sob. Half relief. Half hysteria, which was too many halves, but that was how the night felt.
“Nate’s going to make it?” I asked.
Lily nodded. “If he doesn’t annoy death into changing its mind, yes.”
I closed my eyes.
Thank God.
Then I opened them and remembered Dylan.
Fifty-fifty.
Critical.
Twenty-four to forty-eight hours.
Beautiful, is that you?
My body started shaking.
Not much.
Enough that Lily noticed.
“Go take a minute,” she said.
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I need to check?—”
“No.” Her voice sharpened. “You need to take your mask off before you pass out in a hallway and make me drag you by your scrub pants.”
“I’m fine.”
