Page 43 of Found by the Pack
“Sadie,” I whisper. My throat’s dry. “Still Sadie.”
Boone leans into view next. “Do you know where you are?”
I nod a little, or maybe I just imagine that I do. “Apartment… Shepard’s?”
“That’s right.” Boone’s voice is calm, steady. “Do you remember what happened?”
“Truck,” I say. “There was a squirrel. I swerved.”
The answers come slow, like dragging thoughts through wet cement. They seem satisfied for now. They murmur something to each other, but I’m already drifting.
The next time they wake me, it’s Gabe. “You with us?” he asks, eyes scanning me like he’s assessing a busted engine.
“I’m here,” I rasp.
“You hungry?”
I think about it. “A little,” I admit.
Boone perks up. “You want to try some mac and cheese?”
It smells good, all warm and cheesy and nostalgic, but just sitting up feels like it takes too much effort. I manage to prop myself on one elbow and shake my head.
“I don’t think I can eat all that.”
“You want something simpler?” Shepard asks, already on his feet.
I nod, rubbing at my temple. “Maybe… eggs?”
“Perfect,” Boone says. “I make a mean soft scramble.”
I sink back into the couch. Gus has his chin on my lap like he knows I’m falling apart inside. I scratch behind his ears absently, blinking through the fuzz in my brain.
I feel the cool weight of a damp towel against my forehead as Shepard crouches next to me again.
“You’re still running a fever,” he says. “But if it doesn’t spike higher by morning, we’ll let you shower, okay?”
I nod. This… this is new. Being cared for like this. These three strangers watching over me like I’m worth it. Like I’m not just a burden.
I blink again to clear the tears before they can build.
They come back with eggs on toast, perfectly soft and buttery. Boone hands me the plate with a fork already loaded.
“If you can’t finish, that’s fine,” he says gently. “Just eat what you can.”
I nibble a bit. Swallowing feels harder than usual. Everything still hurts, but not in the same way it used to. Not in the way Scott and the others left me hurting. This is more… tender. Bruised. Manageable.
“You from Memphis?” Gabe asks from where he’s leaned back in the armchair. His tone is casual, but his eyes are too focused. “Your truck’s number plates,” he explains.
“Yeah,” I answer, brushing at a few toast crumbs in my lap. “Born and raised.”
“Big change from here,” Boone says.
“Yeah.” I look around Shepard’s apartment. It’s quiet, soft, full of books and warmth. The rain still drums against the windows. “Memphis was loud. Always moving. My mom was a nurse. Raised me and took care of my grandma on her own. She passed when I was sixteen. Gran too, two years later.”
I don’t usually talk about this. I don’t know why I’m doing it now. Maybe it’s the fever. Maybe it’s the kindness.
“I’m sorry,” Shepard says. He’s on the other end of the couch, one foot tucked under him like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible.
