The sentence lands in the room with more intimacy than perhaps either of us expects. Color rises faintly in her cheeks despite exhaustion, pain medication, and the fact that we have already been naked, terrified, furious, and blood-covered together in several configurations.
I look at her hand still holding mine. “Yes.”
Her mouth trembles, then curves. “Good morning.”
“Is it?”
“It’s technically afternoon.”
“Then your greeting was inaccurate.”
“Oh, thank God.” Tears spring into her eyes even as she laughs. “You’re still annoying.”
“I will endeavor to remain consistent.”
She lifts her head, wincing as the movement pulls at her shoulder brace. I try to sit up. The regen cradle gives a warning pulse, and two monitors object immediately.
Evie points at me. “No.”
“I dislike lying flat.”
“I dislike you bleeding out in abandoned animal exhibits, so we’re both compromising.”
“I did not bleed out.”
“You made a convincing attempt.”
“I survived.”
Her face changes.
The humor remains, but grief rises beneath it, quick and deep. She looks down at our joined hands. “Yeah. You did.”
I turn my palm upward and lace my fingers through hers as gently as I can. “So did you.”
“Barely.”
“Barely counts.”
“Darlene says that too.”
“Darlene says many things.”
“She told the surgeon if you died, she’d haunt his parking space.”
“That seems ineffective.”
“She said it with commitment.”
A laugh moves through me, then becomes pain. I grimace before I can hide it. Evie rises instantly, eyes wide.
“See? This is why jokes are medically dangerous.”
“No. Broken ribs are medically inconvenient.”
“You have bullet wounds.”
“Also inconvenient.”
