It takes me five minutes to scrub my hands and arms. The black T-shirt Nino brought for me hides the stains on my chest, which I didn’t bother cleaning. When I throw open the door to Milene’s room, I’m in a semi-presentable state. Outwardly, at least.
“Tore!” Milene sits up in bed and swings her legs over the side.
I grab the metal cart standing at the foot of the bed and squeeze the edge with all my strength.
“Don’t you dare get down from that bed,” I whisper, eyes focused on the bandage around her upper arm and the IV stand next to the bed. She could have died. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, trying to compose myself. It doesn’t work.
I grip the frame of the cart harder. There’s a shitload of something inexplicable building up inside me, and it feels as though I’m going to ex
