I couldn’t tell you how I arrived in New York. I couldn’t tell you how many people were on my flight or what seat I sat in. I couldn’t tell you anything before the cab ride over to the hospital because I was in a state of complete shock. I’d somehow managed to speak to Miles and hearing the happiness in his little voice soothed me some. He had been with Samson at the park and then they were going to go to a museum. Miles loved museums. Not for the first time, I was thankful to have someone like Sam in my corner. Rowan reached over and put my hand in his, reminding me that he was also still there.

The cab pulled up in front of the hospital and I didn’t wait until it came to a full stop before jumping out and rushing up the sidewalk. I heard Rowan’s voice calling out to me, but I only had one thing on my mind: get to Freddie.

I rushed to the security, fished out my license, and paused, looking behind me. Rowan walked inside, dragging both our suitcases behind him, and strode over. He set them down, pulled out his license, and got his visitors’ sticker. I followed up with Celia again. Freddie was in the ICU, which meant he out of surgery and alive, which was a relief even though the ICU didn’t bring warm and fuzzies with it. Rowan appeared again, taking my hand in his and escorting me toward the elevators. I tightened my grip on his hand as we neared the waiting area for the ICU and let go completely when Celia and I locked eyes. She stood, her eyes bloodshot and puffy, and started to cry the moment she saw me. I felt the emotion surge back as I rushed over to her and wrapped my arms around her.

“What are they saying?”

“He’ll live,” she said, letting go.

“He’s being prepped for another surgery,” Dad added. I hadn’t even seen him standing there. I threw my arms around him next, crying into his neck the way I had done when I was a kid. When I let go, I hugged Mom and then Grandma Joan.

“Miles is with Sam,” my grandmother said.

“I know.” I wiped my face.

Rowan was at my side, saying hi to everyone and asking about Freddie. I could feel the tension radiating from him as we sat beside each other. Mom and Dad sat across from us, Celia sat beside me on the other side, and my grandmother beside her.

“I can pick up Miles if you want,” Rowan said.

“Would you take him home?”

He brought his hand up and brushed my hair behind my ear. “I’ll take him wherever you want him, baby.”

“Home,” I whispered as I fought back fresh tears.

He pulled my head on top of his shoulder and held me there for a couple of beats.

“What is the company saying?” Celia asked. “Have they said what happened? What he was doing?”

“A mission,” Dad said, shrugging. He dragged his hands roughly over his face a couple of times. “They won’t say much of anything. They want us to sign papers, but I can’t even think right now, let alone sign anything.”

“Freddie wouldn’t want you to sign anything without his permission,” Celia said.

“She’s right,” I added.

“Well, he’s unconscious. The doctors say—” He choked on his words and put his face in his hands, unable to get the sentence out. Mom stood and went over to him, hugging him while he cried. I couldn’t stand any of it, but I tried to hold it together.

“Where did he get shot? How?” I asked, raising my voice with each question. “Where the hell was his team? Who did this? We’re not signing any papers. They need to give us answers!”

Rowan’s thumb moved over my thigh in a soothing manner as I spoke. Dad tracked the movement. He didn’t say anything about it, but I knew I’d have to answer questions later.

“His team made it out,” Dad said. “I only know this because a guy came by to check on him. Freddie and one of the others were badly hurt.”

“And this mission was here in New York?” It must have been for them to bring him to this hospital.

“That was all the information they’d give me.”

“This is bullshit.” I stood, anger and frustration and blinding fear threatening to overflow inside me, as I paced the short distance to the opposite wall and back. “They need to give us more information. Where was he shot?”

“Spine.”

“A spinal injury?” I stopped walking and held on to the back of the nearest chair. “Will he . . . will he walk? Talk?”

“We don’t know.”

My knees buckled and Rowan was right there to catch me, to keep me upright.

“Come sit down.”

I shook my head. I didn’t want to sit. I wanted to stand. I wanted my brother to be okay. I wanted him to walk out of that goddamn room and tell me I was stupid for worrying about him. I wanted him to complain about building the IKEA furniture I bought. I wanted him to argue with me over stupid things and tell me I was wrong about everything that came out of my mouth. What would he do if he lost the ability to walk? My brother, who ran everywhere and trained for triathlons for kicks, would hate being restricted. My knees shook again. Rowan’s hands tightened.

“Please sit down.”

I nodded and let him lead me back to our seats. They weren’t paying attention to the way he didn’t stop touching me or the way he caressed my hair and whispered that everything would be okay. They didn’t notice that he kept touching my face, or my leg, or holding my hands. But I did. I cataloged every movement and the way all of it soothed me and made me feel like I could handle this situation.