Helpless.
Full of every unsaid thing we had spent years bleeding around.
Then he blinked, and the wall came back.
“You’re right,” he said.
The words sounded dragged from him.
I hated them.
I wanted him to fight.
I wanted him to stop.
I wanted too many things at once, and none of them were decent.
“Good,” I said.
My voice was steadier than my hands.
Bennett looked between us.
Finally, finally, something like comprehension dawned.
Too late, but at least it arrived.
“I’ll come back later,” he said.
“Doctor,” I said, grateful and mortified.
He gave me a look that was not unkind, then glanced at Dylan. “Try not to pick fights with your blood pressure.”
Dylan said nothing.
Bennett left.
The door closed behind him.
The silence he left was worse.
I stared at the tablet.
Dylan stared at me.
Neither of us spoke.
The monitor beeped.
Steady.
Too fast.
Mine might have matched it if anyone bothered to hook me up.
Finally, Dylan said, “You going to go?”
“To Old Town?”
