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She holds up her index finger and moves it back and forth in front of Kain. His eyes track left, then right.

“Steady. Any nausea?”

“No.”

“Dizziness?”

This time, he answers immediately. “When I sit up.”

She marks the chart again. “That isn’t unusual with a concussion, but I want you to avoid fast movements when you change positions. If the dizziness becomes severe, doesn’t resolve, or is accompanied by vomiting or worsening confusion, come back.”

Kain murmurs his agreement.

She turns to me. “He needs supervision for seventy-two hours. No screens, which means phone, TV, computer. No strenuous activity. No heavy lifting. No driving. Someone needs to be with him at all times.”

“I will be.”

Kain glances at me.

I ignore him.

“Pain medication according to the dosing instructions, with food. Anti-inflammatory as directed. Ice the ribs as needed. Call if his headache worsens, if he starts vomiting, becomes confused, you have difficulty waking him, or he develops any new symptoms.”

I commit the instructions to memory.

She signs the discharge form and holds it out. “Any questions?”

I take it before Kain can. “No.”

Kain opens his mouth.

“No,” I repeat.

His mouth closes.

The doctor suppresses a laugh before she leaves.

“Will can come with us,” Kain starts, still rough from sleep and medication, “to help with⁠—”

“I can do it.” My answer comes out hard enough to stop him.

He considers me for a long beat. “Okay.”

William turns toward the door. “I’ll fetch the wheelchair.”

“I can walk,” Kain protests.

“Hospital policy.” William is already heading for the door. “Sit tight.”

As soon as he leaves, Kain turns back to me, his arms opening in invitation.

I busy myself with the duffel, zipping it up and slinging the strap across my chest.

“Bunny—”

William’s return cuts Kain off as he brings in the wheelchair.

Kain stands, swaying slightly, and William steadies him with a hand on his elbow. I wait for any sign the movement hurt Kain’s ribs, but he gives nothing away.