She shrugs, then winces, pressing fingers to her temple. “Head hurts. Stomach’s off. I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.”
“I didn’t ask for a diagnosis.”
I sigh. “You need anything?”
She considers that, then shakes her head. “Sleep.”
“Text me if that changes.”
Her eye narrows. “You’re hovering.”
“It’s kind of my thing.”
She snorts and closes the door.
I stand there for a second, waiting and listening for movement. When there’s none, I turn away.
Outside, the morning air is cool against my skin. The hospital parking lot is already busy when I arrive, a cluster of people gathered near the entrance. Some are wrapped in bandages, others simply look exhausted. I make my way inside, checking names and speaking with the staff. Smoke inhalation. Minor burns. Magical fatigue. Nothing life-threatening.
Relief loosens something in my chest I hadn’t realized was clenched.
Foxglove & Finch is quieter than usual when I arrive. June stands behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, eyes tired. She looks up when the bell chimes.
“Sheriff,” she says. “You look like hell.”
“Good to see you too.”
She leans forward. “Everyone’s asking. Any reports yet?”
“Nothing severe,” I tell her. “What about Oscar’s pastries?”
Her mouth twists. “No one has come in looking for an antidote so that’s a good sign. I’ve heard that a lot of the Omegas are still having side effects, but I think that’s more to do with the surge than anything else. August and I are doing okay, but my apprentice and Caroline… not so much.”
“Have you heard from her?”
June hesitates. “Not this morning.”
I nod, filing that away. “If anyone comes in reporting symptoms that don’t match what we expect, call me.”
By the time I leave, my phone is buzzing again. Messages piling up. Requests. Demands. I ignore them long enough to step back outside and breathe. Fatigue settles deep in my bones. I need to make sure everyone there’s doing okay.
I think of that kid on the study floor, chalk-stained fingers, convinced knowledge could prevent every disaster. I think of the room I grew up in, the house that’s still mine even if I haven’t slept there in weeks.
There’s work to be done. And I’m not done yet.
The air is cool and damp, the kind that clings to the inside of my lungs. Clouds hang low, thick and swollen from last night’s rain, and the gravel crunches under my boots as I head toward the cruiser. I yawn, a deep, aching pull that makes my jaw pop and drags tears into the corners of my eyes.
My head still throbs, a dull reminder of too little sleep and too much responsibility stacked back to back.
I’m already mentally drafting a community meeting agenda. Hospital updates. Fire damage. Quarry access. Media boundaries. I’m halfway through deciding where to hold it when something darts across the driveway.
I curse and slam on the brakes.
The cruiser jerks to a stop. My heart jumps so hard it hurts, a thud against my ribs. A black blur freezes in front of the bumper, low to the ground, eyes bright as coins.
“Fucking hell,” I breathe, shoving the door open.
