The hospital in the county seat smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as Cruz strode through the corridor with a purpose that had cleared a path through two nurses and a security guard before Wren had even caught up. Dutch met them outside a room on the third floor, his face gray with exhaustion and something rawer, older — the specific grief of a man watching consequences he'd spent twelve years trying to prevent finally arrive in full force.
"He's awake," Dutch said. "Barely. Doctors say he's stable, but they worked him over hard before they left him at the county line. Broken ribs, a fractured wrist, enough bruising they had to rule out internal bleeding before they'd let anyone in to see him."
"He can talk?" Cruz asked.
"He can talk. Doesn't m
