Page 9 of Hunter

She lets it go with another soft nod, as though my silence is just another valid feeling.

By the time the session ends and they herd us back to our rooms, the rage is sitting so heavy in my chest I can barely breathe around it. I drop onto the bed and stare at the ceiling, wrists throbbing under the gauze, shoulder screaming, Robby’s voice still whispering in the back of my skull.

Maybe I am crazy. I probably belong here with the rest of these people dealing with their own demons. I sit with that idea for hours.

The door opens again later. This time it’s not a nurse.

A doctor in a white coat steps in, clipboard in hand, the same one who sounded so damn cheerful about my new scars earlier. He gives me a polite nod as if we’re old friends.

“Mr. Hale. Good to see you sitting up. I wanted to go over the treatment plan for your burns before you’re discharged.”

I don’t bother sitting up straighter. “Yeah? Let me guess. Keep it clean, change the dressings, do the PT exercises, don’t be a dumbass and rip anything open again. Did I miss anything, Doc?”

He doesn’t even blink at the sarcasm. “Essentially. The new burns on your shoulder and upper arm are second-degree. You’ll have increased scarring layered over the old tissue, but with consistent physical therapy you should regain full range of motion. We’ll set you up with outpatient PT starting next week. Three sessions a week minimum. You’ve been through this before, so I assume you know the drill.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, I know the drill. Stretch, strengthen, don’t scream too loud when it hurts. Got it. Anything else, or can I go back to staring at the ceiling and contemplating my life choices?”

The doctor sighs, sounding tired but patient. “We can prescribe something for the pain if you need it. And I’d strongly recommend some sort of mental health support. Burns like these…they don’t just heal on the outside.”

I run my tongue over my teeth and look away. “Right. Because talking about my feelings is definitely going to make the skin grow back nicer. Thanks for the tip.”

He doesn’t argue. Just signs something on his clipboard and heads for the door. “We’ll have the discharge papers ready shortly. Try to rest, Mr. Hale.”

I sit in silence for a long minute after he leaves. Recovery is long and painful… and I’m not sure I’m up for the process for a second time. Changing my bandages alone, making sure they don’t get infected before they heal, using my shoulder even though the skin healing makes it pull tight and uncomfortable. All of it doesn’t feel worth it, not if at the end of it I’ll still be the same fucked up person I am now.

What’s the point of healing the outside when the inside is already ash?

I drop my head back against the pillow and stare at the ceiling tiles until I’ve lost count of the little holes. My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat. The gauze on my wrists itches under the fresh wrapping. Everything hurts, and none of it feels like it will ever stop.

Maybe I should let it fester. Let the scars pull so tight I can’t lift my arm anymore. Let the infection set in. Let the whole damn thing go to hell.

At least then I’d have an excuse to stop pretending I’m still a firefighter. It’s tempting, and I contemplate it until the door opens again.

This time it’s not a nurse or a doctor.

Officer Ramirez steps in, the same cop I’ve run calls with for years. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere else.

“Hale,” he says quietly. “Judge Tallman wants to see you at the station. Right now.”

I sit up slow, my whole body protesting the movement. “The station? They are letting me out now?”

“Yeah, hold is up. But I have to take you to the station.”

“What the fuck for?”

He shrugs, but his eyes are careful. “I don’t think they are playing after what you pulled on that five alarm.” He tosses my shoes and a bag of clothes on the end of my bed. “Get dressed. I’ll give you a minute.”

Every second of getting dressed is agony. But I welcome it. The nurse pops in and awkwardly leaves my discharge papers on the bed. I fold them small enough to slide into my back pocket.

By the time I open the door to my room, sweat beads on my forehead. And I feel like I need a nap. Ramirez doesn’t cuff me. Small fucking mercies.

He doesn’t say much on the ride to the station. Just drives with the radio low, windows cracked as though he knows phantom smoke still clings to me. I stare out at the Brooklyn streets blurring past and try not to think about how close I came to never seeing them again.

They take me straight to her small office. Judge Tallman is already waiting behind her desk—silver hair pulled tight, blue eyes clear. She doesn’t smile.

“Mr. Hale,” she says, voice even and final. “Sit.”

I drop into the chair across from her. My shoulder screams at the movement, but I welcome the pain. It keeps me grounded.