Nysa
The sound of an approaching truck rumbles through the night, headlights cutting through the darkness. I sit up in bed, the distant crunch of tires on gravel pulling me from the restless sleep I hadn’t even realized I’d fallen into.
Something’s wrong. They’re here, to take me. I want to run away, but first I should hide Maddie, tell Hopper to be safe.
I throw the blankets off and reach for the hoodie draped over the chair in the corner of my room. My bare feet hit the floorboards, cold against my skin, but I don’t bother with shoes. There’s no time. Maybe I should take Maddie—and I don’t know why I move so quickly, why something in my chest tightens as I step into the hallway.
I just know.
I hear Hopper’s footsteps before I see him. He’s already halfway down the stairs, a force of solid muscle moving with purpose. The dim glow of his phone carves harsh angles across his jaw, his expression set in stone—grim, unyielding. Every step is controlled, deliberate, as if he’s already bracing for whatever storm he’s about to face.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice quiet but urgent.
He doesn’t look surprised to see me awake. He just glances over his shoulder and mutters, “Stay inside, Nysa.”
Right. Like that’s going to happen.
Fine, if he’s not going to speak now, I’ll get my shoes. Once I have them on, I head down the stairs, pulling the sleeves of my hoodie over my hands. When I step onto the porch, the truck has just come to a stop in the driveway. The engine hums before cutting off completely, leaving the night full of nothing but the rustling wind and the low murmur of voices.
Then I hear it. A noise that makes my stomach drop. A horse. He’s probably in pain. I move before I think, hurrying down the steps. The truck’s headlights are still on, illuminating the two men standing beside the trailer hitched to the back. One of them I don’t recognize, but the other is Malerick.
His expression is carved from stone, his eyes flicking between Hopper and me as we approach.
“Go back inside,” Hopper orders.
“No, you might need help,” I state.
“What happened?” Hopper asks, his voice all business now.
The man beside Malerick—mid-forties, rough around the edges, his face lined with exhaustion—speaks first. “Barn fire in Harvest Hill. This guy was inside when it went up. Managed to get him out, but not before he got torn up real bad.”
Hopper is already moving toward the trailer before the man finishes speaking. I follow, because of course I do.
Malerick sighs behind me, but he doesn’t tell me to go back inside.
The horse is standing but barely. His body sways slightly, and I can see the strain in his muscles as he fights to hold himself up. His coat—what’s left of it—is singed in patches, the areas around his shoulders and back charred. His legs are trembling, and I don’t have to be an expert to know he’s in agony.
Hopper’s entire demeanor shifts the moment he sees the horse. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no pause. He moves forward, hands steady, voice calm as he murmurs low words I can’t quite hear. The horse flinches when he reaches out, nostrils flaring, his entire body quivering.
“Shhh,” Hopper says softly, stepping closer. “I know, buddy. I know. But I promise it’s going to be okay.”
I swallow hard, watching as he slowly but surely gains the animal’s trust, his movements careful but sure. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this. Yes, he’s gentle and loving with his child, but right now it seems like . . . like this is who he really is, stripped down to his core.
“He’s in shock,” Hopper mutters, running his hands along the horse’s neck, checking for any signs of broken bones. “I need to get him inside the barn.”
The man who brought the horse shifts nervously. “You think he’s got a chance?”
Hopper doesn’t answer right away. He’s already moving, already guiding the horse forward, his voice low and soothing. “Let’s not decide that yet.”
The barn is warm, the scent of hay and wood thick in the air. Hopper leads the horse into one of the larger stalls, and I grab a clean bucket, filling it with fresh water before setting it inside. The horse doesn’t drink. I watch as Hopper moves with an efficiency that speaks of years of practice. He checks the burns, murmuring under his breath as he goes, reaching for a bottle of saline solution from the supply shelf.
“What can I do?” I ask, stepping closer.
Hopper glances at me, his blue eyes flicking over my face like he’s trying to decide if I mean it. If I can handle it. Then, finally, he nods toward the cabinet. “There’s a burn ointment in there. Should be in a blue-labeled container.”
I move quickly, finding it on the second shelf. When I hand it to him, our fingers brush, and for a split second, something passes between us. Then he clears his throat, and the moment is gone.
“Hold his head,” he says, gesturing for me to step closer.
