Seconds later the room was rushed by men in suits, but my attention was focused on Atticus. They were simply a movement in my periphery as I fought the break happening inside. Someone took hold of my arms and pulled me off. I cried out, fighting against whoever had me as I was forced to watch them load Atticus onto a stretcher, a pool of blood beneath him.
Everything was in a strange combination of slow motion with fast-forward moments with the volume off. Suddenly, for the first time in days, my arms were freed from the zip ties and an arm swept under my legs, lifting me off my feet. When I looked up, Michael’s familiar green eyes stared down at me. His mouth was moving, but I couldn’t hear anything.
The bounce of each step up the stairs jostled my injuries, and pain began to seep back
