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Her lashes flutter and she makes a small sound, confused.

“We’re here,” I say.

“Here?” she echoes faintly.

“The campus.”

“Oh.” A pause. “Okay.”

I open the car door, pulling her out with me. She tries to stand up on her own and fails. Her body lists sideways, boneless and I catch her automatically and then lift her again.

Her head tips forward, resting briefly against my shoulder as I adjust my grip so it doesn’t.

“Stay with me,” I say quietly.

“I am,” she murmurs. “I’m doing a good job.”

I almost smile at this. Inside, I grab my card to access the teacher and personal elevator and click on her level. The elevator ride is too long. She sways slightly with the motion, fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket where it’s draped over her shoulders.

“You’re cold,” she says softly.

“I’m not.”

“You are,” she insists. “Do you usually get cold when you’re worried?”

“I’m not worried,” I say.

She hums, unconvinced. Her floor is quiet, the hallway lights buzz faintly overhead. I walk slower here, careful of the way her head lolls, the way her feet drag slightly against my leg. At her door, I shift her weight with one arm and fish the key from her bag with the other. Her room is small, her bed unmade, a half-finished assignment sits on the desk.

And a lot of drawings, everywhere.

I lay her down carefully, positioning her on her side and removing my jacket only after I’ve pulled a blanket over her.

She blinks up at me and says, “You’re being nice.”

“I’m being responsible.”

She considers that, lips pursed. “You’re bad at lying.”

“Rest.” I close the door quietly behind us and she frowns faintly but doesn’t try to get up.

Her face is streaked with makeup and red fake blood is smeared along her jaw and collarbone. I go to the sink and wet a towel with warm water. Wring it out until it’s damp, not dripping and when I come back, I hesitate then I start.

I cleaned her face first, avoiding her eyes, and wiped away the makeup, the red, the night. Her skin underneath looks pale and exhausted.

She shifts slightly. “Cold,” she murmurs.

I adjust the blanket higher over her shoulders before continuing. I clean her neck, her hands. Anywhere the fear touched her. I don’t let myself think about why. When I’m done, I discard the towel and move back to the bed.

“Drink,” I say softly as I give her a glass of water.

She stirs when I lift her head to press the glass to her lips. She drinks obediently, slow and clumsy, water spilling down her chin and I wipe it away immediately.

“Good,” I tell her. “That’s enough.”

Now comes the harder part. I searched her room. Drawers, any backpack, even the bathroom cabinet. I find nothing useful at first; notes, makeup bag, hair ties, half-empty packs of cigarettes and an empty flask.

Finally, in the bottom of a drawer, I find a bottle of pills for pain. It’ll help.