WAVERLY
I stand in the doorway of Nancy's sterile hospital room, my heart heavy with both relief and guilt. The fluorescent lights cast a harsh glow on her pale, bruised face - a constant reminder of how close she came to dying at Ken Harris' hands. I watch as her chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, the quiet beeping of the heart monitor punctuating the silence.
"Hey, Waverly," Nancy murmurs, her voice weak and strained from the ordeal. "Didn't expect you to visit."
"Of course I'd come," I reply, trying and failing to sound casual. "How are you feeling?"
"Like I've been hit by a truck. But hey, I'm alive, so there's that." She gives me a wry smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.
"Thanks to Melody," I say, feeling a pang of guilt for not being there when she needed me mo
