"The city's really trying to come back," Heather said, following my gaze toward the construction site.
"Slowly," I agreed, adjusting my grip on her mother as we approached the hospital entrance. "But it's happening."
The hospital had survived the earthquake better than most buildings, its solid brick construction and deep foundations keeping it structurally sound even when the ground beneath it shifted. But like everything else, it bore scars: temporary patches where windows had blown out, a new wing that had been built to replace sections that couldn't be saved, parking areas that were still cracked concrete and makeshift gravel.
The emergency entrance was busy even at this early hour, medical staff moving with the efficient urgency of people accustomed to handling crisis after crisis. Heather hurried ahead to hold the door open, and I carried her mother into the bright fluorescent light that made the blood on her nightgown look even more alarming than it had in the dawn shadows.
"We need help," Heather said to the triage nurse, her voice steady but tight with controlled panic. "She's been coughing up blood all morning, and her breathing—"
The nurse took one look at the woman in my arms and immediately called for a bed and additional staff. Within minutes, we were swept into the organized chaos of emergency medicine, with forms to fill out and questions to answer, while doctors and nurses took over the crisis management that had been entirely Heather's burden until now.
I settled into one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting area and pulled out my phone, typing a quick message to my pack before I could second-guess myself:
"Found our Omega. At General Hospital with a medical emergency. Send Cole."
The response came back almost immediately from Bennett:
"On my way. Cole's finishing up at the mortuary but will be there within the hour."
Heather emerged from the admissions process looking like someone who'd been running on adrenaline for hours and was finally allowed to sit down. She collapsed into the chair beside me with a sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in her bones.
"They're running tests," she said, staring at her hands, which were stained with her mother's blood. "Chest X-rays, blood work, something about fluid in her lungs."
"She's in good hands now," I said, meaning it. "The staff here dealt with a lot of trauma cases after the earthquake. They know what they're doing."
She nodded, but I could see the worry eating at her from the inside. "I should call Becky. The children will be scared if I'm not back soon."
"Use my phone," I offered, holding it out to her. "The signal's better than trying to find a payphone."
She accepted it gratefully, dialing a number with the practiced ease of someone who'd made this call before.
"Becky? It's Heather. I'm at the hospital with Mom... No, well I don’t know... they're running tests... Can you go and stay with the children until I get back?"
I listened to her side of the conversation, picking up fragments that painted a picture of responsibility that made my chest tight with admiration. Children who needed watching, someone named Becky who was clearly trusted with their care, a life structured around the needs of people who depended on her for everything.
"How many children?" I found myself asking when she handed the phone back.
"Seven," she said, rubbing her temples like she was fighting off a headache. "All of them lost their families in the earthquake, and most of the official agencies are still too overwhelmed to place them properly."
The pieces clicked together in my mind like puzzle parts, finding their proper places. "You're running the orphanage on Miller Street?” She nodded. “I thought that place was shut down after the earthquake."
Something shifted in her expression, and a defensive wariness took hold. "Officially, maybe. But the children had nowhere else to go, and someone had to take care of them."
The significance of what she was telling me settled over me like a revelation. She wasn't just caring for her sick mother; she was single-handedly running an orphanage, keeping seven traumatized children fed, housed, and safe in a building that probably wasn't entirely structurally sound, all while dealing with whatever medical crisis had been slowly consuming the woman who'd raised her.
"By yourself?" I asked.
"Becky helps when she can. And there are volunteers sometimes. But mostly, yes." She met my eyes directly, as if daring me to find fault with her choices. "They're good children. They deserve better than the system can give them right now."
Before I could respond, Cole's familiar silhouette appeared in the waiting area doorway. My pack brother looked exactly like what he was... a mortician who'd seen too much death and developed both infinite patience and a dark sense of humor.
"Dante," he said, slightly out of breath. He had clearly run from the mortuary as soon as he saw the message. He settled into a chair across from us. "How can I help?"
I made quick introductions, watching Heather assess Cole with the careful attention of someone who'd learned to read people quickly and accurately. Whatever she saw seemed to reassure her.
Cole took a deep breath, looked at me, and smiled. He knew. He knew just as I had. She’s our Omega, the one we’d been searching for.
"I can find out about your mother's condition," Cole offered. "Medical staff tend to be more forthcoming with people in my profession. We understand the realities they're dealing with."
