I wake up in a white room, monitors beeping, but no voices. My hands move tentatively as I expect them to be strapped to the bed. When they’re not, I hold my arms above my head and squeeze my fists, feeling the pinch from the needle taped to the top of my right hand.

“You’re okay.”

I twist fast to see Kyle sitting forward in a chair, his hands gripping themselves, elbows on his knees. His head leans to one side.

“They sedated you, just to make sure. But you don’t have any injuries. Your heart rate was…” He smiles slightly and holds his palm up above his head, drawing a line. “But you’re okay.”

“Wes…my dad,” I say, my throat hurting to speak. I push to sit up, and Kyle walks to the space next to me, handing me a cup of water and pushing a button on the side of the hospital bed. He glances out the door before looking back at me and smiling. It’s forced.

“Your dad’s in surgery,” he says. My dad. Not Wes.

I try to swing my body around the bed, but his hand stops my knee, and he shakes his head.

“Do this the right way. Let them check you out and tell you when and where to go. For once…play by the rules,” he says, mouth curling.

I glare at him, but nod as the nurse walks in. I let her push her table close and run me through the tests, checking my blood pressure, listening to my heart, checking my fluids I know I don’t need because I have to pee so bad.

“Looks like you can get dressed. Your grandmother is here, so your friend here can take you to her, if you want to change in there,” she says.

I hold up my hand, showing her the IV.

“Right,” she smiles, rounding the bed to my right arm, sliding the needle out and covering the only proof I have on the outside of what happened with a Band-Aid covered in monkeys.

“I’ll wait for you,” Kyle says.

I meet his eyes and nod. They left my leg intact, so I scoot from the bed, my gown gripped in one hand in the back, and I take the bag of clothes from him with my other. I slip into the bathroom and set everything in the sink, holding the sides and looking at the circles under my eyes and rats in my hair. My stomach aches, and my head pounds, but I know it’s only from everything that’s unknown, the things I can’t control. I’m afraid to ask, and that’s the only reason I haven’t. I flush and wash my hands, then leave the safe feeling of four tiny walls without a window, stepping back out to the place where lives dangle in the hands built just like mine, but somehow better.

Wes’s hands are like that. Like mine…only better.

“They flew him to Texas,” Kyle says the moment our eyes meet again.

“Texas,” I echo, my voice still barely audible.

“We weren’t sure they were going to clear his transport at first…because of the case. I feel like a hostage taking shrapnel in the head sorta wins over detectives needing to have witnesses handy.” Kyle whispers an apology when he sees my face contort hearing the graphic details.

“A piece of one of the bullets pierced him. Even though it was small, because of the force and depth there’s some damage and swelling…I don’t know the details beyond that,” Kyle says, his voice quieter. “I didn’t understand a lot of what TK said. But he and Levi told his parents…about Shawn…being Wes’s father.”

My breathing gets faster, and I move to the end of the bed, sitting while my head feels light.

“They think his organs may begin to fail, and Shawn’s the most likely match next to Bruce, so they called him. What makes this all so much crazier is this place he’s at in Texas…”

“Specializes in brain trauma.” I stare at the door when I speak, seeing it all in the blur as nurses rush by in various directions, phones ring, people laugh and chat about lunch breaks. Their lives carry on, and all the while Shawn was covering the possibilities. The money. Texas. The call to Wes.

Knowing I would be brave when I had to, and I’d believe in what Wes could do.

Planning for the fact that as much as I’m Wes’s reason, I’m also his biggest weakness.

“Can I see Grace?”

I look up to Kyle, and his eyes are full of helpless sympathy.

“Sure, Joss. Come on,” he says, holding a hand out for me to take. I grasp his fingers in between mine and keep his arm close to my body, expecting the ground to fall from under me at any moment.

We walk down a long hallway to a dark waiting room, window shades still drawn and the smell of burnt coffee strong.

“What time is it?” I whisper to Kyle as he pulls the door open for us both.

“Four thirty. The police have been waiting to talk to you. They’ve already talked to Grace. And there’s an advocate waiting downstairs, too. They said with things like this, people usually need…help?”

“Ha,” I breathe out. “I’ve needed help for years.”

My friend chuckles, then lets go of my hand as my grandmother pulls me close and squeezes tightly.

“Kyle says Dad’s in surgery?” I sit quickly, feeling the trembling in my legs return.

“We should know more soon. I have faith,” she says, taking my hands in both of hers.

I let her soothe me, and I sit quietly, my head on her shoulder. I don’t tell her my faith is gone. This is where my story ended. My dad dies here. I lost my leg. A bus rolled from a bridge. Every bit of it was right.

I’m not sure what to have faith in anymore.

The minute hand travels slowly, and I start to count the seconds, suspicious of time. I feel like it’s cheating, taking longer to pass. Nearly thirty minutes passes, and someone comes into our quiet room, where the sleepy and desperate are waiting with faith and hope.

Everyone but me.

We all sit up tall because the new person is wearing scrubs, but she’s only here to raise the window shades and declare a new day in the room where time moves slowly. I get up when she leaves and pull a cup from the stack, filling it with hot coffee that’s as dark as chocolate, and just as thick. I dump five containers of cream inside and four packets of sugar, and I stir until the concoction turns into a thick tan soup.

“That looks awful,” Kyle says as I sit back down across from him. I take a sip, my face showing how bitter it is.

“It is,” I say, taking one more and offering the cup to my friend.

He shakes his head and sits back.

“Suit yourself,” I say, drinking one more gulp before giving up and abandoning it along with all of the others piled on the end table near our row of chairs.

I return to the clock, and I watch the hour hand move this time. It’s slower, of course, which is more frustrating. I stare hard, wondering if I have the power to make it move. My teeth gritting in the back so hard that my jaw slips when the door opens to a woman in a white jacket, a mask in her hands. I bite my tongue as I stand.

“Miss Winters?”

“Yes,” I move forward. I spend that second trying to read her face, bracing myself, knowing it won’t matter how prepared I think I am.

“I’m Dr. Delaney. Your father’s in recovery. You should be able to see him in forty minutes, maybe an hour,” she says, and I feel myself start to fall. Kyle’s hand steadies me, and Grace squeezes my arm.

“He’s okay?” A tear runs down my cheek quickly, and for once, I let it be.

“He’s got a lot of pain, and it’s going to be a while before he’s on his feet and doing anything like driving or…”

“Or yelling at players on the ballfield,” Kyle butts in.

“Yes, or that,” the doctor says. “He’ll need lots of rest, but…he was very lucky. The bullet lodged in part of his lower intestine, not severing it completely, and we were able to remove the bullet and repair the tear.”

“Do you have the bullet?” My question surprises me. I don’t know why I want it, but I feel like I need to hold it. I need to feel the weight of it in my hand. I need to know what cut Wes, what sent him to Texas.

“It was given over to Bakersfield PD,” the doctor says.

I nod; of course it was. Police will want to talk to me. Soon.

“I’ll be sure someone comes to take you to his room as soon as he’s awake,” she says, leaning forward and touching my arm. I expect a coolness here, like the doctor who handled my amputation—more excited about his work rather than sympathetic to my long road ahead. I get none of that though. She doesn’t say anything more. She just touches me, in a way that speaks volumes, and looks me in the eyes to make sure I know this is real.

We all stand as she rounds the room and talks with a volunteer sitting at the desk near the door, signing something, then leaving to save someone else I suppose.

“So I guess…it looks like your dad…dodged a bullet?” Kyle says.

Grace and I both turn to look at him through unimpressed, lowered eyelashes.

“Too soon?” he winks.

I can’t tease him back. I’m too weak, too empty from everything inside me that I’ve spent. I fall into him and hug him tightly, my face buried in his chest. He circles his arms around me, his hands flat on my back, and he stands with me like this for minutes until Officer Polk clears his throat, and I have to go tell them everything I know, leaving out the bits about Wes being Christopher and having abilities that no one can explain.

I talk with police and the advocate for almost an hour, until Kyle knocks softly on the door of whichever doctor’s office we commandeered and tells me my father is awake. I’m excused quickly, and my legs find the strength to run.

My dad’s face is puffy, a tube taped to his nose, more linked to his arm and chest. The beep is constant, and the nurse turns the volume off when I walk in, pushing a chair close so I can hold his hand.

I grab it instantly and wait while the nurse checks his vitals, moves a few bags and drops his chart in the bin attached to the wall next to the white board that lists his daily goals. I read a few as she shuts the door.

“Looks like I’m going to get to coach you for a while,” I say, moving my gaze to the man I almost lost.

“I’ll knock that out tomorrow,” he says, coughing halfway through his words, then grimacing from the pain it causes in his gut. “Damn.”

“Let’s give ourselves a break with this one, huh?” I cover his palm with my other hand and watch him breathe. I think I’ll sit in this chair until the sun comes up again doing just that, making sure that his lungs work, that his eyes open when they should, and that his skin is never too cold.

“I told them I didn’t want the morphine,” he says.

“You can have morphine, Daddy.” I shake my head and bring his hand to my cheek.

“I’ve worked too hard,” he says, his eyes barely open. His lips part and he licks at the dryness.

“I’ll see if you can have water,” I say, moving to stand. He stops me.

“No, I’m going to sleep. I just wanted to see you. They won’t let me dehydrate,” he chuckles, coughing again before another painful moan.

My head falls to the side. I hate seeing him like this.

“I’m an alcoholic, Josselyn. No morphine,” he says, pushing his voice as loud as it will go.

I hold his gaze for a moment, then blink as I look down at my hand on his.

“Yes, sir. No morphine,” I promise.

A weak smile paints his lips and his eyes flutter, each blink lasting longer, until his eyes are barely slits that I kiss close as I pull his blanket up to his chest. No phone to type a message with, I walk the length of the hallway to where Kyle and Grace are waiting.

“Taryn called,” Kyle says, pushing his phone in his pocket. “She and her parents are at your house. They’re helping with whatever the police need, arranging for cleaning or…”

“Tell her thank you,” I interrupt, not wanting to think about what happens after something like this.

“She said they’ve set up a rental for you. It’s close by,” he shrugs.

“Can you take Grace? I’m going to stay the night. I don’t have my phone, so can you come pick me up in the morning? Maybe bring it?” Kyle inhales slowly, and his gaze falls to my chin as he nods, looking up at me again before he pulls me in for another hug.

“He’s not going to text,” he whispers. I’m not delusional, but it hurts to hear anyhow.

“I know,” I say, my voice quiet at his ear.

I know Wes won’t write, but even still…what if somehow…he did?