“I’m fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t believe me—her expression makes that clear—but she continues her examination anyway, shining a penlight in my eyes that makes me wince.
“Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No,” I answer automatically, though I’m not really sure. Everything feels disconnected, like I’m floating above my body, watching this happen to someone else.
The doctor sighs, making notes on her tablet. “I’m going to prescribe something to help you sleep tonight. And I strongly recommend speaking with someone about what you’ve experienced. Trauma like this?—”
“I don’t need therapy,” I cut her off. “I need my truck back.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them. They sound childish, petulant. But it’s true. That truck wasn’t just transportation. It was my dad’s mobile office, his pride and joy, the place where he taught me everything I know about storms. All of his custom equipment—some of which doesn’t even exist anymore—was in that truck. Equipment I’ve maintained since he died. Gone in a split second.
The doctor gives me a look that’s half pity, half exasperation. “Ms. Brooks, I understand your attachment to your vehicle, but right now my concern is your physical and mental wellbeing.”
I turn my head away, staring at the wall. There’s a poster about proper hand-washing technique that I find myself studying with unnatural intensity. Anything to avoid the doctor’s concerned gaze.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll take the sleeping pills.”
She nods, apparently satisfied with this small victory. “Good. I’ll have the nurse bring them by. You should rest here for a few hours before we discharge you.” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Your friend has been asking about you. He came in about twenty minutes after you, but he’s already been discharged. Would you like me to send him in?”
Jonah. The memory of him lifting me from the wreckage, his arms a sturdy fortress around me as chaos erupted, floods my thoughts. In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense ofsafety, as if nothing could penetrate the bubble he created. The world outside was a cacophony of destruction, yet within his embrace, time seemed to stop. I could have faced the end right then and there, and I would have welcomed it, content to leave this life with him shielding me and Max from the storm’s fury. His heartbeat thrummed against my ear, a steady rhythm that whispered promises of protection, grounding me in the midst of turmoil. All the fears and uncertainties that usually gnawed at my insides faded away, replaced by a profound peace.
But that was then. In those fleeting moments of chaos, I could have died right there in Jonah’s arms, with Max pressed between us, and it would have been okay. I would have been okay. Now though? Now I’m not so sure.
“Ms. Brooks?” The doctor is still standing at the door, waiting for my answer about Jonah.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. “Send him in.”
After she leaves, I stare at my feet, now bandaged and elevated. The cuts sting, but I barely feel them. It’s like my body has decided the physical pain isn’t worth processing when there’s an emotional void this massive threatening to swallow me whole.
A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock at the door. Jonah steps in,, now in hospital scrubs instead of his pajamas. Max follows close behind, golden fur wet, collar jingling as he pads toward the bed.
“Hey,” Jonah says, moving in carefully, like I might break if he gets too close. Maybe he’s not wrong.
“Hey,” I manage, rough around the edges. “You okay?”
“Am I okay?” He shoots me a look, part disbelief, part concern. “I’m not the one who tried to walk barefoot through a tornado debris field.”
I shrug, then wince as pain shoots through my shoulder. “Not my smartest move.”
Max whines, tugging at the leash to get closer. Jonah hesitates, glancing toward the door.
“They’re not thrilled about him being here,” he explains, lowering his tone. “I had to convince them he’s a therapy dog. Which, technically, isn’t entirely untrue right now.”
“They’ll have to drag him out,” I say, reaching my good hand toward Max. “Come here, buddy.”
Jonah brings him closer, and Max immediately rests his chin on the edge of my bed, like he’s checking for damage. I scratch behind his ears, finding comfort in his solid presence.
“How bad is it?” I ask, not looking at Jonah.
“There was a couple a few rooms down from us. They didn’t make it. Neither did the clerk working the front desk.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, making my chest tighten. People died. Real people who were just sleeping in their beds or working the night shift, gone while I survived. The unfairness of it crashes over me. Strangers died while my biggest concern is a truck.
“God,” I whisper, suddenly feeling selfish and small. “That’s?—”
“I know,” Jonah says quietly, pulling a chair closer to my bed. He sits down, his knee brushing against the edge of the mattress. “The authorities are searching through the wreckage. It cut a path about half a mile wide through the town.”
