Page 7 of Faron
And in my dreams, her hands still moved over my ribs like she was trying to stitch the world back together.
So when I heard a whisper—just a whisper—that the new doctor running the free clinic on 8th and Vine had eyes the color of a storm, I didn’t hesitate.
I drove for hours, straight into the heart of the city’s rot.
And there she was.
Not in a cave. No moonlight or mystery.
Just cracked linoleum floors, buzzing fluorescent lights, and blood on her scrubs. Blue Davis—barking orders at a gangbanger bleeding out on her table like she didn’t give a damn what they said to her.
She looked up and saw me.
And for the first time in years, I could breathe again, knowing she was safe and home.
9
Faron
Los Angeles smelled worse than any battlefield I’d ever crawled through. Hot piss on concrete. Old smoke. A hopelessness that seeped into your skin.
The clinic was wedged between a boarded-up liquor store and a laundromat with broken machines. Neon lights buzzed weakly above the door:FREE CARE.
Bear whined in the seat beside me.
“You wanna see her first, or should I?”
He wagged his tail like he understood, eyes fixed on the clinic door.
I stepped inside.
And there it was—that voice. Commanding. Alive.
“No, Jose, you’re not leaving this clinic with a bullet still in your shoulder—sit your ass down, or I’ll staple you to the damn table myself.”
I stopped dead in the doorway.
Blue Davis.
Hair tied back. Sleeves rolled up. Hands bloody.
A nurse rushed past. A kid cried in the corner. Chaos, misery, fear. And she stood in the middle like a lighthouse.
She turned. Saw me.
And time collapsed.
“Lightfoot.”
My name in her voice. It wrecked me.
Bear didn’t wait. He limped straight to her and dropped at her boots like he belonged there.
She tore off her gloves and crouched, running her fingers through his fur. “Hey there, traitor.”
I didn’t care who was watching.
I crossed the floor and stopped inches from her.
