NOLA
The air in the medical wing was too still, heavy with the artificial scent of antiseptic and the low, rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. I stood by the glass partition, my fingers tracing the cold surface as I watched the steady rise and fall of my father’s chest. He looked so small beneath the white sheets, a far cry from the man who had loomed over my life like an invincible titan. Silas stood at the monitors, his face illuminated by the green glow of a scrolling heart rate.
"He is stable, Miss Nola," Silas said, his voice barely a whisper. "But the trauma to the nervous system was extensive. The healers say his mind is in a protective fugue. He is in there, somewhere, but he isn't ready to face the world we’ve become."
"Maybe that’s for the best," I murmured, my eyes drifting to t
