Like he’s been rooted to that exact spot since we left.
He looks up when we come in.
Our eyes meet.
He doesn’t ask.
Doesn’t need to.
“Got them out,” I say.
A beat.
Then he nods.
“Good.”
That’s it.
But I see it.
The shift in his shoulders.
The tension easing just enough.
Because it mattered.
Because Olivia fought for them—and we didn’t leave them behind.
Lucas steps up beside me. “More kids still unaccounted for.”
Russ’s jaw tightens.
“Yeah,” he says quietly.
That’s not over.
Not by a long shot.
39
Russ
ICU smells like antiseptic and exhaustion.
The lights are dimmer here.
Softer.
Machines hum behind closed doors while nurses move through the hall in quiet rubber-soled footsteps.
A nurse leads me to Olivia’s room, then stops outside the door.
“She’s still heavily sedated,” she says gently.
I barely nod.
My hand closes around the door handle.
