JJ
Nixx came home seven hours later with two cracked ribs, a bruised shoulder, six stitches near his hairline, and discharge instructions he had already decided were personal attacks.
The scans had shown no internal bleeding, no skull fracture, and no damage that required him to stay overnight. I repeated those facts silently every time my brain tried to return to Benny’s call and the way I had asked whether Nixx was alive before I asked anything else.
He was alive, and he was standing in our bedroom trying to pull his own shirt over his head despite the fact that lifting his left arm made his whole face tighten.
“Stop.”
“I’ve got it.”
“You very clearly do not.”
I crossed the room before he could make the bruised shoulder worse and caught the hem of the shirt.
Benny leaned against
