Page 106 of The Last Morgan
Time passed. Slowly.
Hours dragged on, a slow torture of anticipation.
Finally, just as the clock passed 3PM, the double doors opened, and a doctor walked through.
"Miss Morgan?" he asked, his voice calm but clipped with fatigue.
Lucy bolted forward. “Yes. Please. Is he—?”
“He’s stable,” the doctor said, his voice like a lifeline. “Not out of the woods entirely, but we managed to stop the internal bleeding. The bullet missed any vital organs by millimeters. It was... lucky.”
Lucky. Lucy wanted to laugh and sob at the same time.
“Can I see him?”
The doctor nodded. “He’s in recovery now. He’s sedated, but stable. Come with me.”
The hallway twisted and stretched before her. Her feet were heavy, like she was walking through molasses. When she entered the recovery room, everything else faded away.
Byron lay there, plugged into what felt like every machine known to man. Beeping, hissing, slow rising and falling of the respirator. His chest wrapped in thick white bandages, a line of blood visible beneath the gauze.
She didn’t touch him—she couldn’t. Instead, she sank into the chair beside him, slouched low, hands gripping the edges of her seat.
He looked peaceful. Too peaceful. Like someone sleeping too deeply.
Corey stepped into the room a few minutes later. He kept his distance but leaned close enough to speak. “I’ll take Barnaby home,” he said softly. “We’ll wait to open the box until you’re back. And the interrogation... that can wait too.”
Lucy didn’t respond. Her eyes were fixed on Byron. She didn’t even blink.
The rest of the day slipped away.
As night fell, the machines continued their gentle rhythm. Lucy, slumped forward now, lay with her head on the edge of Byron’s mattress, cheek resting against her crossed arms.
At some point, sleep took her.
Then, around 2AM, she stirred.
It wasn’t the beeping of the machines or the footsteps outside.
It was a hand.
A heavy, warm hand brushing across the top of her head.
Her eyes snapped open.
She shot upright, blinking and scanning the dimly lit room—until she saw him.
Byron.
Eyes barely open. Weak, but undeniably conscious.
She gasped. “Byron?”
He was struggling against the tubes in his throat. Alarm bells began to chime as a nurse rushed in, followed by a doctor.
“It’s okay,” the doctor said, easing toward him. “We’re going to remove the tube. Just stay calm.”
They worked quickly and gently, sliding the breathing tube out and checking his vitals. The machines beeped steadily.
