“Slim’s dead,” I managed, my throat raw. “Drea was with him and got caught in an explosion at the safe house.”
Nairobi’s face shifted—shock first and then softened. She slipped off the bed and wrapped her arms around me.
“Oh, baby,” she murmured.
The first tear fell hot against my cheek, and I wiped it away quickly. “I’m good,” I lied.
“You’re not,” she said as she cupped my face. “And you don’t have to be.” There was no pity in her voice.
I swallowed and moved away from her. I pulled on a t-shirt and then my hoodie.
“I’m going with you,” she said, already pulling on her clothes. She moved with purpose.
“You don’t have to come.”
She stopped, her face twisted into a scowl. “I’m coming,” she said again. “Your sister is hurt and Slim was my friend too.”
End of discussion.
Saint Matthew’s was bright in that sterile hospital way. It felt too soon to be back in one when the baby shower incident had only been a month ago. The scent of antiseptic and industrialcleaner was so strong I could almost taste it while they checked my ID and sent us up to the burn unit.
My pulse refused to settle as we rounded the corner to the wing where Drea was. Nairobi’s hand found mine, as if she could telepathically sense my nerves.
“You got this,” she whispered as I knocked then pushed the door open.
Mama was in a chair at Drea’s bedside, head bowed in prayer. She still had on that black scarf she wore to bed, like she hadn’t had the energy to take it off. When she looked up, her eyes were swollen and red from crying.
My gaze went straight to my sister.
Drea was out cold—sleeping, sedated, I didn’t know what the appropriate term for this was. Her right eye was swollen shut, bruises and cuts scattered across her face like she’d been through hell. The burns were worse on her left side. Thick bandages started at her shoulder, ran down her arm, and wrapped across the top half of her torso. The monitors' quiet, steady beeps filled the heavy silence in the room.
I let go of Nairobi’s hand without thinking and moved closer to the bed, stopping awkwardly because I didn’t know what was allowed. Touch her. Don’t touch her. Say something. Don’t say the wrong thing.
“They got her sedated,” Mama said, barely above a whisper. “She was screaming from all the pain.”
I nodded. Anger climbed up fast and useless, because there was nothing I could do here, and it didn’t change what was in front of me.
A knock came from the doorway and a doctor stepped in with a chart in his hand.
“Ms. Jackson? Mr. Jackson?”
“Yes,” I said.
“I’m Dr. Patel,” he said, glancing between us. “I want to update you on Andrea.”
Mama straightened and took Drea’s bandaged hand, holding it like she was her lifeline.
“She has second and third-degree burns on her left side. She also has a fractured wrist,” he explained. “Right now, our focus is on swelling, pain control, and preventing infection. The next few days are mostly monitoring—keeping her stable, watching her vitals, and making sure the wounds stay clean.”
“How long before she wakes up?” I asked.
“Can’t say,” he said. “It really depends on what she can tolerate. When she wakes, she may be disoriented and agitated. Burn pain is intense, so be patient with her.”
He flipped a page, and his brows furrowed, then looked up again like he was figuring out how to say what came next.
“There’s something else,” he said carefully. “Were either of you aware that Andrea might be pregnant?”
Mama’s hand flew to her mouth. She looked at me like I was supposed to have an answer.
