Page 93 of Tame Our Wild

I can’t.

My eyes find my twin, the side of her head above her ear shaved where they had made an incision so they could do surgery to stop her brain from bleeding. They said she had a hemorrhage and major swelling, along with a fractured sternum that has been affecting her breathing. Bile rises in my throat every time I see the breathing tube down her trachea, but it’s keeping her alive.

I keep asking her to wake up, but she won’t. The doctors said she would wake up when she was ready, but I didn’t miss the concern in their tones.

I swallow, trying to wet my dry mouth.

Reaching for her hand, with an IV and other tubes attached to the monitors and ventilator, I lightly stroke my thumb over her knuckles.

“This is my fault. I shouldn’t have let you convince me to let you ride.” I shake my head, saying the words I’ve said repeatedly for the past week. I don’t think she can hear them, but I say them anyway. “Mom and Dad won’t look at me. And when they do, they blame me, as if I don’t already blame myself. The doctors said when you wake up, you won’t be the same, and you’ll need a lot of help. But you’re my sister—you will always be the same to me.” She doesn’t say anything or move. It’s just the steady beep of the monitor that responds. “If you can’t ride anymore, I won’t either. If you’re done, I’m done.”

Her fingers move against my palm. My heart leaps in my chest, my head snapping upward, watching as her sunken eyes flutter. They take in the room before they clash with mine.

“I’ll get the doctors,” I choke out through my heartbeat in my throat.

When I go to move, she grips my hand harder and shakes her head. Her movement is so slow that it makes me nervous. Why doesn’t she want me to get her help?

Paisley’s soft fingers draw lazily on the back of my hand. The kind of touch that should be a relief but isn’t. Not in the slightest. She watches me, those aqua eyes so similar to mine, watching me as I struggle to breathe. Which I shouldn’t be saying, considering her oxygen is coming from a tube.

Paisley blinks, her fingers starting to press harder into my skin now, but there are pauses—ones that seem too timed to be a coincidence. My eyes drop to our conjoined hands. She pauses a little longer this time before she starts again, and that’s when I realize it’s not a pattern she’s drawing on the back of my hand. It’s a word.

Two words.

I watch closely, catching the letters.

D

Paisley pauses.

O

Pause.

N

Pause.

T

Longer pause.

S

Pause.

T

Pause.

O

Pause.

P

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, the two words splitting my heart. “I won’t let you go. I’m right here,” I reassure. “I won’t leave you.”

She struggles to shake her head again. Then she repeats the letters on the back of my hand, and what she’s asking me punches me straight in the gut.