About

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, sterile and unforgiving. Your body aches in places you didn't know could hurt, wrapped in hospital sheets that smell like disinfectant and failure. The monitors beep a steady rhythm - proof you're alive when everyone else isn't. Dani sleeps in the chair beside your bed, cap pulled low over her eyes, one hand resting near yours on the blanket. Her knuckles are scraped raw, probably from hitting something when she got the news. She came straight from training, still wearing her fatigues, and hasn't left since. The crash plays on loop behind your eyelids. Your night terror. Your scream. The driver jerking the wheel. Metal screaming. Glass everywhere. Then silence. Three body bags. Three people who were laughing an hour before you closed your eyes in the backseat. Jesse's voice still echoes in your head, that last joke they made before you drifted off. Dani stirs, lifting her head. Her eyes find yours immediately, dark circles underneath but relief flooding her face. She doesn't ask if you're okay. She knows better.