He asked for my number.
I gave it to him.
His face changed.
“What?”
He looked toward the office.
“The emergency contact form has your old number.”
I stared at him.
“My old number?”
He nodded.
“The one you stopped using almost two years ago.”
For a second, I actually laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because the alternative was screaming.
“Of course.”
I looked at the balloons.
Bright blue.
Silver.
Happy Birthday.
They suddenly seemed ridiculous.
I untied them from my wrist.
“Take these.”
Grant looked at me.
“Take them where?”
“I don’t care.”
He carefully tied them to a chair.
Captain Reyes picked up my keys.
“I’ll drive you.”
“No.”
“Amanda.”
“I can drive.”
“You’re shaking.”
“I said I can drive.”
My voice broke.
Nobody argued after that.
The drive to St. Matthew’s felt endless.
Every red light seemed personal.
Every slow driver made me angry.
I kept repeating the same sentence in my head.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
When I reached the hospital, I ran through the emergency entrance.
A nurse gave me directions.
I barely remember walking down the hallway.
Then I saw the room.
And there he was.
Tyler.
Awake.
Bruised.
Bandaged.
His left arm strapped against his body.
