Avery:
The waiting room was too white.
White walls. White lights. White noise buzzing faintly from the vents above me like a hum I couldn’t escape. Everything smelled like antiseptic and grief. Everything felt like a holding cell.
I sat in the corner chair, knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight around my body like they could keep me from falling apart. Cruz’s blood was dried on my skin. Caked into the creases of my fingers. Splattered down the front of my shirt, like some awful badge I hadn’t earned.
I couldn’t stop shaking.
There were voices around me. Muffled. Muted. Nurses calling names. Footsteps echoing down sterile halls. Riot pacing like a caged animal. Diesel sitting with his head in his hands. A cop asking questions that no one was answering.
I heard it all like I was underwate
