The city slid past in a smear of red lights and wet asphalt.
Sirens far away.
Night pressing close against the windows.
Megan lay stretched across the back seat. Half on my lap. Half on the leather.
Her breath came thin and ragged. Every few seconds her body flinched, like the memory of a blow still lived in her muscles.
I held her hand. Tried to warm it between both of mine.
My pulse tried to sync with hers. Too slow. Too faint.
“Stay with me, Meg,” I whispered. “You’re alright. I’ve got you.”
A low sound escaped her throat. More exhale than voice.
The bruises along her cheekbone had already purpled, shadows spreading fast.
One eye almost swollen shut. Dried blood caked on the split of her lip. Her shirt torn at the shoulder. Finger-shaped bruises printed down her skin.
The sig
