Page 123 of Honeyfires

She'd bring me food, sit with me while I picked at it, eventually give up and just make sure I ate something, anything, even if it was just a protein bar and coffee. She'd close my laptop, pull me away from the screen, suggest we watch a movie or read together or go for a walk. Sometimes I'd agree, would let her distract me for an hour or two. But then I'd drift back to the spiral, back to the endless loop of second-guessing and self-recrimination.

On the fourth day, I decided to visit Stevens.

The hospital smelled like antiseptic and suffering, that particular blend of cleaning products and pain that made my skin crawl. I'd spent enough time in military hospitals after Afghanistan to have developed an aversion to the scent, to the fluorescent lights, to the hushed voices of nurses moving between rooms like ghosts.

Stevens was in a private room on the third floor. The bandages covering his arms and chest were stark white against the pale blue hospital gown, and the sight of them made my stomach turn. Burns, second degree. All because I'd called for an evacuation that got them caught in the firestorm.

"Hey, boss," he said when I appeared in the doorway, his voice rough but surprisingly strong.

"Hey, kid." I stepped inside, suddenly uncertain. "How you feeling?"

"Like I got hit by a truck made of fire." He tried to smile, but pain flickered across his young face. "But the docs say I'll heal up fine. Scars, but nothing that'll keep me off the crew permanently."

I moved closer to the bed, taking in the extent of the bandages, the IV line running into his arm, the monitors tracking his vitals. He was twenty-three years old. Should've been invincible. Instead, he was lying in a hospital bed with burns covering ten percent of his body.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, the words inadequate and useless. "Stevens, I'm so—"

"Don't." He cut me off, his expression turning serious. "Don't apologize, boss. You saved my life."

The words hit me like a punch. "I got you hurt."

"You got me out." He shifted in the bed, wincing slightly. "Cap was pissed at the time—still is, probably—but you made the right choice. That fire turned fast, faster than anyone predicted. If we'd stayed on that line..." He trailed off, but we both knew how that sentence ended.

"You're in a hospital bed," I said, my voice hard. "You're bandaged and burned and—"

"And alive." He looked at me with those earnest young eyes, with absolute conviction. "I'm alive, Petra. Miller's alive. Jackson's alive. Emerson and Davids are alive. We all got out because you trusted your gut and called it."

I wanted to believe him. Wanted to let his words sink in and absolve me of the guilt I'd been carrying. But all I could see were his bandages, hear the barely concealed pain in his voice when he breathed, imagine what those burns must feel like under the sterile white gauze.

He was saying thank you, I thought, replaying the conversation in my mind. But all I could see were his bandages, hear the pain in his voice when he breathed. He was hurt because of me.

"Boss?" Stevens said, pulling me back to the present. "You still with me?"

"Yeah." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Yeah, I'm here."

"Good. Because I need you to hear this." He struggled to sit up straighter, and I instinctively moved to help him, adjusting his pillows. "You're the best forewoman Rodriguez has ever had. Everyone knows it, even the guys who are too stupid to admit it. You saved us. Don't let the backwards agency and the media and the people who weren't there make you forget that."

My throat tightened. "Thanks, kid."

"Anytime, boss."

I stayed a little longer, talking about nothing important. The food, the nurses, when he thought he'd be discharged. Normal conversation that felt surreal in the sterile hospital room. When I finally stood to leave, he called after me.

"Petra?"

I turned back.

"Come back soon, yeah? It gets boring as hell in here."

I managed a smile. "I will."

I was almost to the elevators when I heard footsteps behind me, quick and purposeful.

"Wait. Please wait."

I turned to find a woman in her fifties, dark hair streaked with gray, wearing jeans and a University of Arizona sweatshirt. Her eyes were red-rimmed but fierce, and I knew before she said anything that this was Stevens' mother.

"I should go," I said immediately, already turning away. The last thing I needed was another confrontation, another person telling me I'd destroyed their family member's life.