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Ahead of us, Bishop sighs.

I don't give a fuck.

Callie's alive.

She's in my arms.

And for the first time in eleven years, I have absolutely no fucking desire to hide.

54

CALLIE

Hospitals are terrible.

I've decided this after about three hours of being poked, scanned, questioned, examined, and repeatedly told I need to rest.

The scans didn't show anything requiring surgery, but the doctor says I have a concussion, bruised ribs, and a shoulder injury. Apparently, none of those qualify as reasons to leave immediately.

They finally moved me into a private room, so now I can have visitors.

Apparently, no one here understands that I've already spent plenty of time lying down today.

Some of it unconscious.

Some of it tied up in the back of an SUV.

Some of it on the forest floor while a homicidal asshole tried to drag me back to said SUV.

“You're supposed to be resting.”

I turn my head. Roman sits in the chair beside my bed.

He's been there since they brought me in.

He rode in the ambulance.

He stood outside the curtain while they cut off part of my shirt.

He followed me to imaging.

He questioned the nurse about every medication they gave me.

He questioned the doctor about my scans. Then questioned him again when he didn't like how quickly he answered.

At some point, someone made Roman surrender his gun. That conversation was interesting.

Now he's sitting beside me with his elbows on his knees, watching me like I might disappear if he blinks.

“I’m resting.”

“You're talking.”

“My mouth isn't injured.”

His eyes narrow. “Unfortunately.”

I smile.