With that, I limped toward the hospital exit.
Each step felt like walking on a bed of knives.
I couldn’t hear my own footsteps; I could only feel the faint tremor of the ground travel from my feet up through my legs—heavy, chaotic, oppressive.
Lucas didn’t follow. I kept going until he disappeared from my sight.
I didn’t want to go home.
Going back would mean facing the Lockes—their mouths, their ceaseless accusations.
So I sat on a bench outside the hospital.
The lights cast long shadows behind me.
I stared at the cars flowing past, my mind gradually going blank in waves.
After a while, someone passed by my side.
I didn’t see them clearly, but I felt the brief shift in their presence.
Suddenly, a woman stepped in front of me.
“Miss, the blood on your head is bad. Let me help y
