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I turn to Michael. “I’m sorry to leave now, but I need to investigate what my nine-year-old is hiding from me before it turns out that she built a miniature volcano somewhere in the hospital.”
“Oh. We don’t want this place blowing up. I understand.”
I take Madison’s hand, and we walk away down the hallway.
“So, what is it that you wanted to tell me?” I ask after a few minutes.
“Doctor Owen said we could take Lily home now.”
“That’s it? That’s why you came running?”
“Well,” she looks at me with a somber expression. “Walking was taking too long.”
I hold my laughter for a split second before it explodes.
CHAPTER 8
Kaylee
I jerk awake, and it takes a minute of panting and going through the ritual of taking deep breaths before I remember where I am.
I’m in Logan’s house.
I’m safe.
I’m alive.
There’s nothing coming after me.
But when I glance towards the door, I half expect the man in the white coat to burst in, laughing harshly. I expect him to tell me there is no way I can escape and that I’m stuck here forever.
You’re fine, Lily.
I take deeper breaths, then direct my gaze to the wall clock I had Logan buy after one of my nightmares included a clock whose hour hand didn't go past nine. The second and minute hands weren’t moving either.
Five thirty a.m.
It’s not nine. The second and minute hands are moving, too. It means I’m not stuck there in the nightmare. I’m out, and I’m free, and I won’t let it hold me down.
I get up from the bed and exit the room into the hallway. The hallway is lit brighter than the living room—something I think Logan did after he found me in the hallway, unable to move, more than once.
I exhale, grateful for his initiative, and go to the living room. There are a few toys belonging to Madison scattered around, and since we had dinner around the coffee table last night, a few things lay around on the table and the floor.
Needing something to distract my mind, I arrange the living room. I finish the living room quickly, so I move to the kitchen.
Logan has been cooking the portion of our meals that the doctor’s wife didn't bring, and every time I asked to help, he’d decline, giving the excuse that I need to get better.
It feels rude living in someone’s house and not contributing.
I don’t know if they’ll like what I make—since I can’t remember if I was a good cook, but it’s the least I can do after everything. I head into the kitchen and straight to the cupboard, opening both doors.
It produces very little that catches my fancy, so I go to the pantry for a little raid. After thirty minutes, I come out with enough ingredients to make feta pasta—I have no idea how I thought of that. It just popped into my head—and head back to the kitchen.
I soon get so lost in the cooking process that I don’t notice time going by or Logan entering the kitchen. Until he taps me on the shoulder, startling me enough that I drop the knife I’m using to cut up the basil.
Thankfully, he pulls me backward quickly so that the knife clatters to the floor instead of my foot.
“Sorry,” he says, letting me go and picking up the knife. “I didn’t think you would be startled. You didn’t answer when I called your name, so I went for the only thing I knew would get your attention. Sorry.”
