Page 39 of Drowning in Darkness

“You drove a getaway car with two injured FBI agents while being chased by armed men. I don’t think we need to pinpoint the exact moment.”

I like her.

She smiles. “Thanks.”

I said that aloud? I am not that person. I don’t word-vomit everything in my brain.

Melanie steps back and wiggles her fingers at me. “You’re safe to move inside so I can take an X-ray of your chest. You might have a concussion. Nothing severe from what I’m seeing, but I want a scan to be safe.”

I nod and swing my legs out of the car and onto the ground. My knees buckle, but Melanie has lightning-fast reflexes and catches me.

I grin at her. “Sorry. I can walk. I swear.’

“Well, save a woman’s old back and get in the wheelchair, okay?”

A man waits with the promised chair, and she lowers me into it before they rush me inside. James stays on the phone with me the entire time. I grit my teeth as the slightest jostle makes pain ricochet everywhere.

“Stay with me,” James demands. The words land deep. Not because of what he says, but because of how he says it. As if he knows exactly what I’m fighting. The vulnerability. The helplessness. The possibility of waking up and finding myself trapped again.

My fingers tighten around the phone. The black spots creep back into my vision as I’m wheeled into a room with a bed. It’s clean and clinical, but doesn’t smell of astringent like a typical medical building.

“I don’t want to pass out.” The confession slips out before I can stop it.

Melanie takes a step back, giving me space. James doesn’t rush to reassure me. Doesn’t tell me everything will be fine.

“I know,” he finally says. “But you have to be brave right now. Like you were when you barreled out of the garage like the hounds of hell were on your ass.”

Something inside my chest cracks, old and fragile.

“If I can’t protect myself...”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

I blink. The darkness presses at the edges of my sight. I fight it. Fight it harder. James witnesses every second.

“Stephanie, can you do something for me?”

My throat tightens. “What?”

“Count backwards from twenty.”

I stare at him. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Probably.”

“That’s your plan?”

“Humor me.”

I roll my eyes. “Nineteen.”

“Good.”

“Eighteen.”

His voice remains steady. A lighthouse in rough water.

Seventeen.