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You better get up, Maxwell. My mouse will not be okay if you do not.
I moved my gaze back to the dim outline of my mouse.
A deep sense of helplessness settled over me.
Please, God.
Maxwell had to pull through. It would be the only way my mouse would get to piece back together the fragments of the life she had that bullets had shattered.
She wiped away tears with her hands and watched him some more, whispering something.
Was she talking to God like me?
Would both of our prayers be heard?
In that bathroom, Emily had faced down masked men with unwavering courage, shooting and stabbing, slamming and kicking.
It was hard to pay attention to my own battle. I’d been so in awe of her.
But now she sat there, crumbling under the weight of Maxwell’s fight for life.
I had warred with many adversaries, but this helplessness in this moment was a foe that I had no weapon against.
Wake up, Maxwell.
Why did humanity have to be so fragile?
Especially in my life—one entangled in the web of crime.
Littered with danger.
Where loyalty was often paid in blood, and betrayals settled with bullets.
Every day precariously balanced on the edge of a knife, with death—the Devil’s assistant—a constant, uninvited companion lurking in the shadows.
God. . .we have lost too many. Please. . .spare us this pain.
Already, the echoes of my past decisions haunted my conscience.
Pavel’s ghostly image flashed through my mind.
No. Maxwell cannot die. The idiot would definitely enjoy spooking me for the rest of my life.
I gave up on praying to God, and focused on my old friend.
Death. . .
He was always waiting, patient and indiscriminate. And he didn’t care about your plans, your dreams, or your fears.
He was the one true equalizer.
Death, Maxwell is not for you. Not now. You must wait.
The nurse on my right applied a pressure bandage to my side and spoke, “Almost finished, sir.”
I grunted and put my gaze on my mouse.
She now clutched Maxwell’s hand tightly in hers.
