Page 113 of Theta

"Love…you."

"I love you too, Story. Go back to sleep. I'll be right here next to you when you wake up."

"Never…leave?"

"Never."

She falls back under, then, although her hand continues to clutch mine, even in sleep, for a long time before it goes slack.

I'm not far behind her, but not before Dr. Lia comes back with a Styrofoam cup of ice water, which I sip greedily until my stomach sloshes and my eyes slide shut without my say-so.

The next time my eyes slide open, Story is awake and eating, each movement cautious. She's chatting in low tones with someone—Selah, her long thick black hair silvered at the temples. Anselm is standing behind her, his hands resting on Selah's shoulders, listening as Story talks. Anselm hasn't changed much over the years—his hair is a little thinner, blond hiding most of the gray. A few more crow's feet, maybe. But overall, he’s the same as ever.

His eyes flick to me. "Ah. Killian, you are awake."

Story looks at me with a smile. "Hey, you."

I smile back. "Hi. You seem a bit better."

“Oh, I am. I'm on so many drugs right now." She does seem a bit loopy. "Yay drugs!"

Anselm whips out a cell phone and sends a quick message. "Your parents are here. They only stepped out for a moment."

"Brynnie?" I ask.

"Safe."

"Cal?"

The pause is heavy. "Still missing."

"But Pugli is dead."

"Reports are mixed," Anselm says, "but what we have been able to learn is that he seems to have escaped Pugli's men, only to run afoul of some other kind of trouble. What kind of trouble, we cannot say for sure, but it seems connected to a girl."

I snort. "Figures. Only Cal would get himself out of trouble and then into more trouble because of a girl.”

The door swings open and Mom flies into the room like an ICBM, only just barely halting her momentum before she reaches me, her hands fluttering like frantic birds around my face before settling, clutching gently. "Killy, my boy." Her eyes are tired but full of joy and relief. "There you are." Her wild, tightly curled black hair is pulled back into a giant curly poofball, which she only does when she's serious, worried, or seriously worried. "My sweet boy." Her kisses to my cheeks are delicate and soft and warm, just like when I was a boy and had a skinned knee or something.

Makes my eyes burn and my throat tight. I blink hard, look away. "Goddammit, Ma."

She sniffs a laugh. “I’m not crying, you’re crying,” she says, sniffling as she swipes at my eyes with her fingertips. "What are a few tears among family? You've been missing for more than two weeks!"

Dad is here, too, his hard, weathered face as unexpressive as ever, his eyes the only window into his emotions—relief, mainly. "Glad to see you in one piece, son.”

I snicker. "Mostly."

"Bah. Coupl'a holes. You'll be fine. Ask me how I know."

I take the bait. "How do you know, Dad?"

He grins at me. "Well, the first one, this one—" he lifts his black tee and shows me a faint, round, puckered scar high on his left side. "That one missed my lung by a whisker."

"Nicholas." Mom's voice is a bark. "I hardly think the kids need to hear your war stories."

"I dunno, Mom," I say. "I think I'll have a better appreciation for them, now."

"Perhaps now that we are all here together," Anselm says, "you two could debrief us on the events of the last few days."