Page 96 of Life After You

The room is sterile, all blue pastel and stiff brown leather chairs. They look cushioned, but they might as well be stone. We sit, sweaty, restless, unable to look at each other. Every one of us loves Mac in some way—like a sister, like family. But for me? She’s everything. My heart, my soul, my reason for breathing.

Minutes feel like hours. Then the door opens. “My name is Dr. Rembrant. I’ve been overseeing Miss Smith’s care.” I nod but don’t look at his face, only his immaculate hands clutching the clipboard. My throat locks up. My vision blurs. A wetness drips onto my cheek, but I only notice when my fingers come away damp.

“As you know, Miss Smith was in an accident with a male driver earlier—"

“Wait…what?” The words scrape out of me, raw and strangled. I’ve been so focused on Mac, I didn’t think about the driver.

“She has multiple fractures, three broken ribs, and intercranial hemorrhaging. We’ve placed her in a medically induced coma to allow her brain to heal. Once the swelling reduces, we’ll begin the weaning process—”

His voice fades, swallowed by the high-pitched ringing in my ears.

My stomach clenches. Every breath is a fucking battle.

Time warps, folding in on itself. I don’t know how long I sit here, locked in, drowning in the past—because we’ve heard this before. We’ve lived this before. Braden.

A ghost of a memory cuts through—white walls, fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic and blood. Voices telling us there was nothing more they could do.

No. No, no, no.

My fingers dig into my knees. I must’ve been moved at some point because there’s a cold coffee cup in front of me, untouched. I don’t remember sitting down.

Footsteps.

That’s what pulls me back. The rhythmic thud of shoes against tile.

The door squeaks open.

Another set of footsteps.

I force myself to lift my head.

Dean.

He looks…wrong. Not just pale—empty. His eyes are raw, rimmed red, but his face is eerily calm. Like the lights been drained out of him.

‘Hey…” My voice is hoarse.

He doesn’t answer, just drops in the chair next to Sam. Sam shifts uncomfortably.

“Where’s Clay?”

Dean looks at me like I just spoke Latin. His mouth opens. Then, without a word, he swings for me.

I dodge, barely, and tackle him. My arm locks around his neck, ready to fight—but then a force yanks me off. I crash into a chair.

Si, the mechanic, stands over us, jaw tight, muscles coiled with rage. “Clay was driving,”

What the fuck is the mechanic doing here?

The words send ice through my veins. My stomach turns to lead. “Shit. I didn’t…We didn’t know. What’s happening with him”

Dean shakes his head, staring at the floor.

Overwhelmed.

Broken.

“Mr. Dale?”

---