Page 125 of Shadowed Hearts: Frost
"I'm fine."
"You're running on fumes and stubbornness." His green eyes study me with uncomfortable accuracy. "She's stable now. The worst is over."
Miguel looks up from his tablet. "He's right. Go shower, eat something that isn't vending machine coffee. I'll stay with her."
The rational part of my brain knows they're right. The part that's been calculating worst-case scenarios for twenty-five hours straight refuses to move.
"Two hours," I compromise. "Then I'm back."
Remy nods. "Two hours. But make them count."
Two hours and seventeen minutes. Just over my promised two hours so that Remy and Miguel can't complain, but not so long that anything could have gone wrong.
I push through the medical room door to find Miguel hunched over his tablet, stylus moving across the screen as he updates her charts. Vanessa's still asleep, her breathing steady and even.
"Anything?" I ask, settling back into the chair I've claimed for the past day and a half.
Miguel looks up, noting my shower-damp hair and the fact I actually changed clothes. "Stable. Temperature's been normal, vitals good. She woke up briefly about an hour ago, asked for water."
I nod, pulling out my notebook to record the current time and her status. The familiar ritual grounds me after two hours of restless pacing in my apartment.
"She asked about you," Miguel adds, voice carefully neutral.
My pen pauses mid-stroke. "What did you tell her?"
"That you were getting some rest. She seemed... relieved, actually. Told her you looked like hell."
"Great."
Miguel sets down his tablet, studying me with those physician's eyes that see too much. "She also asked about the episodes. Remembers fragments—confusion, hallucinations. Wanted to know if her brain was damaged."
"What did you tell her?"
"The truth. That the neurotoxin caused some temporary neural pathway disruption. The episodes are getting shorter, less frequent. Her brain is healing."
I record Miguel's observations in neat columns, finding comfort in the quantifiable data. "Episode frequency?"
"Down to every six to eight hours. Last one was..." He checks his watch. "Four hours ago. Brief confusion that lasted maybe two minutes."
Better. Measurably better. The tightness in my chest eases slightly.
Vanessa stirs, eyelids fluttering. Both Miguel and I lean forward automatically.
"Nessa?" Miguel's voice carries the gentle tone he must use with all his patients.
She blinks slowly, gaze tracking around the room before settling on us.
"Hey." Her voice is stronger than it was this morning, less scratchy.
"How do you feel?" Miguel asks, already reaching for his penlight.
"Like someone scrambled my brain with a fork." She tries to sit up, winces, then accepts Miguel's help to adjust her pillows. "But better than yesterday. I think."
"Yesterday's a blur," Miguel admits. "You've been fighting some neurological aftereffects. Episodes of confusion while your brain processes out the toxin."
She nods slowly. "I remember bits. Seeing things that weren't there, thinking the walls were moving." Her gaze finds mine. "You were here the whole time."
"Someone had to monitor the situation."
