Beau nods. “Good plan.”
Travis mutters, “I’m gonna need to smoke so much weed to get over the stress of these two weeks,” but he keeps driving.
Fast.
We arrive at the private jet waiting for us on a dimly lit airstrip outside Denver. No explanations needed. Beau has a pilot friend. That friend doesn’t ask questions. People like Beau collect favors the way normal people collect phone numbers, and this one happens to fly a jet without scanning passports or running background checks.
Beau doesn’t waste time once we are in the air. As soon as the jet levels out, he cracks open the med bag and pulls on gloves. His movements are clean, practiced. This kind of efficiency only comes from doing this a hundred times before, probably on himself.
He peels back the blood-crusted gauze, cleans around the wound with antiseptic that burns deep into my nerves, and mutters something about how I tore it open worse trying to stand earlier. He repacks it tightly, pressing down with more pressure than necessary, and tapes it up again with a new roll.
“Antibiotics,” he fishes a prescription bottle out of the bag. He twists off the cap and shakes out two pills, pressing them into my palm. “And take this with it. Oxy. Don’t make a habit of it.”
I swallow both without asking for water. “You still got that doctor?”
He nods. “Yeah. Why?”
“I need Risperidone. Haven’t taken it in weeks.”
Beau stops moving. “You hallucinating again?”
I meet his gaze. “Yeah. Luke this time.”
He doesn’t ask for details. Just gives one slow nod. “I’ll make the call.”
I lean back against the headrest. My mouth is dry as sand, my tongue heavy. I hadn’t realized how dehydrated I felt until Travis’s voice cuts in from the aisle.
“Here,” he holds out a half-empty bottle of blue Gatorade he raided from the minibar. “Electrolytes. This should help, right?”
I take it without a word and drink until it is gone. It isn’t cold, but I don’t care. My body pulls it in like it has been waiting for days. I don’t realize how dizzy I still am until the sugar hits.
Travis sinks into the seat beside me. His leg bounces restlessly, like he is trying to shake the panic out of his body.
“We’re gonna get her. Don’t worry.”
I stare at the floor for a second, then force the words out.
“She’s pregnant, Travis.”
His head whips toward me. “What?”
“She told me… right before everything went to hell.”
He stares like he can’t decide if I’m messing with him. Then he leans back and drags a hand over his face.
“Holy shit.”
“Yeah,” I sigh.
“She’s strong, Seth. Brooke's a survivor.”
Luke’s voice comes from the opposite seat.
“Tick tock, Seth. Your girl’s running on borrowed time.”
Luke leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me.
“You’re gonna be late. You’re always late.”
