Page 74 of Sinful
None of this happened.
That's how this life works.
Ten minutes later, we're allowed in.
The room smells like antiseptic and copper.
Medical equipment beeps softly—heart monitor, IV pump, things I recognize from TV but have never seen up close.
Dad looks smaller in the bed.
Diminished, like the torture took more than just his hand—it took some essential piece of him.
But he's breathing.
Chest rising and falling steadily.
Mom goes to him immediately, takes his remaining hand in both of hers, presses her forehead against his knuckles.
"I've got you," she whispers. "You're home. You're safe. I've got you."
Elfe stands on the other side, one hand on Dad's shoulder, the other on Mom's back. Holding both of them up.
I stay by the door.
I don't belong in this circle. This family moment.
I'mthe reason he's here in the first place.
"Helle." Elfe looks at me. "Come here."
"I'm fine where I am."
"Helle.Please."
There's something in her voice—not a request, a need—so I move forward.
I stand at the foot of the bed, hands wrapped around the footboard like it's the only thing keeping me upright.
We stay like that for a long time.
The four of us.
What's left of our family after Los Coyotes took their piece.
Hours pass in that room.
The sun sets.
Someone brings food that none of us eat.
The doctor comes back, checks vitals, adjusts medications, and leaves again.
Dad sleeps through all of it, dragged under by drugs and exhaustion and trauma.
Mom doesn't leave his side.
Just sits there holding his hand, occasionally talking to him in a low voice.
