I wake to Locke saying my name. I open my eyes, and the underground car park swims into focus beyond the windscreen.
“We’re home,” he says.
I stare at him, trying to remember where we’ve been, then it all comes back to me at once:
The hospital. The drip. The taste of metal beneath my tongue.
Then my stomach rolls, and I close my eyes again.
“Oh, hey,” he says in alarm. “Don’t move.”
“Wasn’t planning to, I assure you.”
Locke gets out, comes around the car and opens my door. Cool air brushes my face, and it should help. It doesn’t.
“I can’t walk,” I tell him, though it kind of kills me to admit it. “I really don’t think it’s happening right now.”
“I know, baby.” He unfastens my seatbelt, his hands careful, his movements slow enough not to jolt me. “Put your arms around me.”
He help
