Page 112 of Anchor
She placed her hand over Reid’s sternum and leaned close. “We’re going, Reid. Try to keep up.”
They moved fast once Seth called the signal. Hedges took the head of the gurney. Tuck grabbed Claire’s bags. Nurses’ eyes teared as the team rolled Reid down the corridor she knew by heart. The elevator doors closed behind them.
At the transport ramp, Ian waited with his hands in his pockets, face unreadable. Kieran stood beside him, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed.
“You’ve got everything?” Ian asked.
Claire glanced at the gurney. “Just him.”
Kieran offered a thin smile. “Then you’ve got it all.”
Ian pulled her into a brief, firm hug. “We’ll see you soon. You’re not alone.”
“I know.” She sniffed.
As she turned, Kieran leaned close. “Tell him he still owes me five answers. And a rematch.”
Claire managed the faintest smile. Then the doors closed.
CHASE DENVER NEURO-REHAB UNIT
The elevator opened into silence. Not hospital sterile and sharp silence, but something warmer. The Denver neuro-rehab wing didn’t feel like a hospital.
Walls were pale sage and soft matte charcoal, lined with quiet recessed lighting. A long glass wall faced the mountains. The scent of eucalyptus lingered faintly beneath the filtered air. No beeping and no hallway chaos. Hope without noise.
Claire walked beside the gurney, holding Reid’s hand. Room 218 waited at the end of the hall. When the door opened, her breath caught. It looked like a home. Reid’s medical bed stood near the window, monitors recessed into the wall behind it, cords tucked neatly into custom housing. No exposed poles. No blinking lights. Just a soft hum beneath the silence.
A second bed that was low, wide, and layered in navy linen sat beside his. Claire stared at it.
“For you,” Seth said from behind her. “If you’re staying. Nurses anticipated you’ll be part of his routine.”
She looked at him. “You expected me to stay?”
Seth’s mouth lifted slightly. “I didn’t expect anything. But we made space.”
Tuck and Seth transferred Reid easily to his new bed. Tuck adjusted the compass Claire had tucked near his arm during flight. He had remained quiet since they left Ann Arbor.
She wondered if he was feeling the way she did. Too many emotions to even admit.
Claire walked slowly to the second bed, sat down, and looked at Reid from just two feet away. No machines between them now. She reached out and touched his knuckles. There was no response, but he was still hers.
She glanced around the room. A small bookshelf. A filtered music system. A panel for lighting control that dimmed like sunrise and sunset. There was nothing accidental. It was designed to welcome someone back.
Seth placed the chart down gently. “We’ll start neurostimulation in the morning,” he said. “He’s in the right place now. If he’s coming back, this is where it’ll start.”
Claire didn’t look up. She just nodded and whispered to Reid, “Okay, Hanlon, this is your lane. You move when you're ready.”
THIRTY-EIGHT
CHASE DENVER REHABILITATION UNIT – ROOM 218 – NIGHT ONE
The lights dimmed automatically at 2100 hours. The overhead glow receded until the walls warmed with a low amber hue, enough to find your way across the room, not enough to disturb.
Claire lay on her side in the bed next to Reid’s, facing him. She hadn’t pulled the blanket over her. She couldn’t. It felt wrong to be warm while he was still locked in cold stillness.
Reid looked peaceful. She hated that word because it suggested surrender. His hand rested on the top of the blanket, IV ports looped cleanly around his wrist. His face was a little fuller now—his weight had stabilized. A feeding tube provided him the necessary calories. Color had returned to his lips. His breathing was slow and precise—BiPAP-assisted but no longer intubated. Oxygen stayed on a constant low flow. She couldn’t tell if that meant something good or was just the body’s trick for trying not to die.
Claire’s phone sat on the table beside her—no messages or new alerts. She provided updates to Ian, Kieran, and Apex, whoforwarded them along their chain. No one wanted to ask if he was still unconscious out loud anymore.
