These things aren't supposed to happen to us. You're not supposed to be in there, hanging on by the barest fraction of a thread, and I'm not supposed to be out here with your blood on my hands. Your blood. It's all over my skin.

He keeps telling me to go home, get some rest, clean up a little. He says he'll let me know right away if anything changes, but that's not enough. I owe it to you to at least stay until I know. Until we both know.

The girls are both safe. At least there's that much that I can be grateful for, if there's anything to be thankful about in this whole mess. But, as deeply wrong as it is, as much as it goes against my nature as a pro, I wouldn't be this worried for anyone else on the team.

The blood exposing my failure is dried, and it flakes off if I move my fingers. I'm keeping my hands very, very still, because if this is the last time I touch you, I don't want to let go.