Page 116 of Claim

The fragments lined themselves up clinically in my mind even as everything else swam. Gunshot wound to the flank. Blunt force trauma. Orthopaedic injury. It was all very neat in theory. In practice, my body felt as though it had been dragged apart and hastily reassembled.

“How long?” I asked.

“You were unconscious when you arrived. You were in intensive care for a day and a half. Sedated. They moved you to this ward once they were satisfied you were stable. You’ve been here, in and out of it, for two days.”

Intensive care.

My chest tightened, and it had nothing to do with broken ribs.

“You’re in a high-dependency ward now.” She ruffled the covers over me, checking the drips and whatever else I had stuck into my skin. “Close monitoring. Pain control. Rest.”

Rest felt like a distant concept.

“But we’re arranging a transfer,” she added briskly, as if changing the subject might smooth the edges. “Once you’re strong enough. A private hospital. More privacy. Better continuity of care.”

I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy to care. My entire world had narrowed to pain, breath, and the dull certainty that something terrible had happened and I was only beginning to understand the shape of it. So I lay there while my mother fussed with blankets and pillows, telling me again that I was safe, that I was lucky, that everything had been handled.

But beneath the medication and the careful voices and controlled environment, my body remembered cold concrete. Hard impact. The sound of a gunshot. And the sickening jolt as I went down.

Still I couldn’t ask the one thing sitting heavier than any injuries on my chest: how was Razor? Was he hurt? And most importantly, where was he?

Time blurred. Doctors came and went. Nurses checked lines, adjusted drips, and murmured reassurance. My mother refused to leave my side, citing the one-visitor rule as if it were a personal affront, until eventually a familiar figure appeared at the end of the bed. Scrubs, stethoscope, posture that didn’t belong to a visitor at all.

Henry.

Somehow, rules bent for him.

“Tris.” He moved to my other side, automatically scanning monitors, checking charts, eyes doing what his mouth didn’t need to say. Once a doctor, always a doctor. “They said you were awake. Nasty bit of work you took there.”

“Be honest, Hen.” I swallowed, breath catching where my ribs protested. “Am I going to be okay?”

He smiled. Easy. Certain. “You? Tristan Hale-Fitzroy? Of course you are. You’ll be back on your feet and terrorising a courtroom in no time.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’re going to need the bed.”

I tried to laugh. It came out wrong.

Henry caught the shift in my face immediately and glanced towards my mother. “Mrs Hale-Fitzroy, would you mind popping down to get him some lemonade? It’s good for recovery.”

She was on her feet instantly, as if he’d handed her a life-saving task. “Of course, Dr Redmayne.”

She kissed my forehead, then my nose, and swept out.

“Thank you,” I croaked once the ward doors shut.

“She hasn’t left. Not even when your father tried to insist on a turn.”

I coughed. Everything hurt. I winced.

Henry checked my chart again. “We can probably push your pain relief a little. I’ll have the consultant look at that.”

“When will I get out of here?”

“This is the NHS, Tris. If the papers are to be believed, we need to make sure you’ve had the opportunity to catch at least three rare infections first. Give us a day.”

I laughed. It hurt. Worth it.

“You’ll move to a standard ward in about twenty-four hours. But your mother’s already requested a transfer. Honestly, Tris, don’t fight it. Better food. Quieter rooms.”

I swallowed and looked at him properly. “Can you tell me?”