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Beep, beep, beep, beep. “What does that mean?”

“They think he hit his head when the bike went down. He’s stable, but…”

“But what? Tell me.”

“Dev.” Huck lays a gentle hand on my arm, his dark eyes soft. “Logan’s in a coma. And they aren't sure when he'll wake up again.”

My eyes swing toward the ceiling when he continues to speak, but it's drowned out by the blood rushing to my ears. Memories filter through my head.

“You’re bleeding. You can't drive.”

“So you drive.”

“I don't know how to drive a damn motorcycle, Dev.”

“Can't wait to die with you tonight.”

He wanted to take an Uber. He made me wear the helmet.

The fucking helmet.

Guilt steamrolls over me, crushing everything in its path. I press the heels of my palms into my eyes despite the pain, trying to block out the image of Logan’s face, pale and unsure as he climbed onto my bike. It’s burned into me now, etched onto my brain forever.

This is my fault.

He didn’t want to ride. I pushed. I laughed. I fucking laughed.

My voice comes out hoarse. “I should’ve made him wear the helmet.”

But it's too late.

He told me I made him feel alive, made him feel more like himself than he’s ever been.

And in return, I broke him.

Just like I've broken myself.

PART THREE

Distortion

A deviation from the perfect image caused by the optical design of a camera lens.

Chapter

Thirty-Seven

Salem

They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and I never used to understand what that meant.

Photos can be destroyed. They can be altered, manipulated, creased and bent. I didn't realize until now that the same could be said for a memory.

I sit at Logan’s bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest. His heart rhythm matches my own, the machine connected to him beeping in my ear. The hand I hold in mine is warm but limp. Stubble dusts his chin from six days of lying in bed with a ventilator down his throat.

But he still doesn't wake. Not when they airlifted him home to Utah yesterday. Not through the MRIs and multiple skin grafts to cover the road rash all over his body. Not even now, as I squeeze his hand tightly, his wedding band digging into my skin.

“There's some activity,” the doctors had said, “but he's experienced a traumatic brain injury. Healing will take time.”