He opened his eyes.
Milky light filtered through a window. The room was small. An IV bag hung above him, half-empty, the line running into his arm. A chair beside the bed.
Harper.
She was asleep in the chair, her body curled under a dark blue blanket. Her face was grimy, dreams flickering under her closed eyelids.
She was holding his hand. He should let go, but didn’t. She’d got them here while he was unconscious, handling what was his responsibility. He didn’t like that at all.
Her hand was small inside his, her knuckles raw from days of cold and hiking through the wilderness.
A cough came from the doorway.
Katya stood there. Arms folded, leaning against the frame, watching him with an expression that was half relief and half the particular brand of exasperation she’d directed at him for years.
“You look terrible,” she said in Russian. Low, so as not to wake Harper.
“I’ve seen worse.”
“No.” Katya’s mouth flattened. “I’ve seen worse.”
He sighed. “Afghanistan.”
“The fishing boat.” She pushed off the doorframe as she entered the room.
“The fishing boat wasn’t my fault.”
“The fishing boat was entirely your fault.” Katya adjusted the drip without looking at him, then pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. “Fever’s broken.”
“Hmm.”
“Your doctor girlfriend set the IV.” Her eyebrows rose. “Clean work.”
“She’s not my?—”
Katya fired him a look.
He closed his mouth as she glanced at Harper.
“She drove here alone,” Katya said. Matter of fact. “You always did like arriving half-dead.”
“I was unconscious.”
“Exactly. Lazy. Make other people do the work.”
He skimmed his thumb over Harper’s knuckles. “She did the work.”
Katya’s eyes dropped to his thumb. “You always bring me strays.”
Pav frowned. “What?”
“Dogs. Injured birds. That fox with three legs.”
“I was twelve.”
Her head tilted with the memory. “You carried it home in your school backpack.”
“It was injured.”
