I wake and sleep in fragments, drifting in and out of consciousness like the tide keeps pulling me under and then deciding I can surface again just long enough to breathe, and every time I open my eyes Adam is still there. He does not pace, does not hover, does not pretend he needs to be anywhere else, and the quiet constancy of his presence steadies me more than any medication Alice gives me.
The infirmary smells faintly of antiseptic and clean linen, a sharp contrast to dust and blood and stone, and it takes me a while to stop expecting the ceiling to give way again every time something creaks in the walls. Alice notices before I do when my breathing changes, when tension coils back into my shoulders without warning, and she adjusts my position with practiced calm, murmuring reassurance
