Light bulbs around me pop. I choke out, “What room?”
She side skirts thin, broken glass like it’s nothing, like my shock and fears and hopes haven’t manifested themselves in destruction yet again. “Two twenty-two. First, let’s—”
I don’t wait for the rest. I’m already running to find the stairs.
Will and Callie are standing out in the hall, talking quietly. Callie’s got a hand on his chest, and he’s ... it looks like he’s got one curving the arc of her waist. In any other circumstance, this might delight me, but ...
But I need to see what’s behind door number two hundred and twenty-two.
They’re startled when I jog up, and I get it, I do. I’m covered in dirt, ash, blood, sweat, and tears. One of my arms is hosting a tourniquet. I’m a hot mess if there ever was one to wear the label. Will’s saying my name, asking me how I am, and I hear all the love and concern in his voice, but I ignore him, ignore Callie, too when she asks where Kellan is.
I yank the door open and find Cameron sitting by a bed, reading a newspaper. He also says my name, but ... but ...
My husband’s lying in the bed next to him.
My good hand covers my mouth; some godsawful choking noises sound in the room and I’m pretty sure they’re mine.
Jonah’s here. In a hospital. With Cameron.
Pictures rattle on the walls, a plastic cup topples off a table, spilling water across the floor. Hope all too recently buried springs forth in a glorious blaze of color.
“Hen! I thought Astrid was getting you checked out.” Cameron rises to meet me, but I brush past him and head straight to the bed. I hope he’ll forgive me for my rudeness, hope he’ll understand.
My hands are shaking. I’m flat-out shaking and so ecstatic I don’t know what to do with myself. Jonah’s alive. Jonah’s here. Kellan wasn’t lying—his brother is here.
He’s asleep, head titled slightly to the side as his chest softly rises and falls. He looks okay, though. Not a scratch on his face. I can’t see his chest beneath the blankets, but ... his face looks so good, like nothing ever happened.
If only I could pretend none of this happened.
“I’m here.” I crawl up on the mattress next to him, grabbing the hand closest to me and kissing it before I lean over and press my mouth to his. His lips are ... cold. Is the air conditioning on too high in the room? I’ll have to fix that. “I’m here. I’m back. I’m so sorry that it took me so long. Gods, you cannot imagine how glad I am to see you. I thought,”—I lay a cheek against the back of his hand—“it doesn’t matter what I thought. We’re together again. That’s what counts.”
“Hen ...”
He must be so tired. He isn’t even stirring, even though I’m practically bouncing on his bed. “Jonah?” I curve my good hand around his face. Huh. His skin is cold, too.
Cameron runs a hand across his face and takes a deep breath. “Chloe—”
My husband isn’t waking up. Other than breathing, he’s not moving. “Jonah?”
Will and Callie are back in the room, I think; their hushed, uneasy voices blur in the background. Why do they all seem so sad?
“Jonah?” I shake his shoulders a little; it’s selfish of me to wake him up when I’m sure the Shamans have told him he needs to be resting, but I just need to know he’s okay. Even if it’s just a sleepy hi and smile. I kiss his mouth again, the force of all my love for him radiating out of me. He’s so still, though, so ... cold. He’s never felt so cold to me before.
Anxiety finds its way back to my belly. He needs to wake up. I ... I will not accept anything other than Jonah being okay right now. Nothing else is acceptable. Not now. Not after everything we’ve been though, gone through.
I do the unthinkable. I haul my hand back and smack the face of the person I love more than any other being in the entire universe, leaving behind a red mark. “Wake up!” My voice is so hoarse from the day’s events, but I’m loud enough to shake the room. Shake the bed. “Jonah Whitecomb, you need to wake up right now! Do you hear me?”
Nothing. Not a single twitch, flinch, or change of breath.
No. This is not happening, not again. Oh gods, not again. I rip the blankets back, tug up his the top of his pale blue scrubs. My fingers trace across the smooth skin there; no lines, no holes, no anything but paling golden skin. My ear drops down; his heartbeat is slow and steady, matching his soft breathing.
Why isn’t he waking up? Is this ... is he in a coma?