Alive.
The word should calm me.
It does not.
It only gives the fear more room to expand.
“How injured?”
Nara glances at the physician, who answers with professional precision. “Plasma wound through the right shoulder with muscular and vascular damage, controlled. Multiple rib fractures. Concussion. Lacerations from glass. Pelvic and spinal trauma from the fall, but advanced imaging shows no severing of the spinal cord. Internal bleeding was contained with surgical nanites. She will require additional procedures, but she is stabilized.”
Stabilized.
That sterile word sits in my mind like a barricade built between Evie and death.
I cling to it.
“She will live,” I say.
The physician’s gaze steadies. “If complications remain controlled, yes.”
If.
I hate that word.
Nara steps closer. “Alliance trauma tech saved her. Saint Orra’s got an emergency grant after the riot last year. The nanite suite is new enough to do real work.”
I nod because words have become difficult.
Darlene wipes her face angrily. “Ron?”
My hands curl.
Nara sees and says, “Not here.”
“Where is he?” I ask.
“No one knows,” Darlene says. “He crawled out after she fell. Burned half his face, bleeding all over my goddamn stairs, and still managed to run because the universe hates good bookkeeping.”
Alive, then.
Good.
No.
Not good.
Necessary.
I cannot kill him in a hospital corridor.
The physician looks me over again. “You are injured.”
“I am not.”
“You are bleeding on my floor.”
I look down.
