what now? | outerbanks

• eighty-two •

Sarah

By the time Pope pulls up, I can see John B. and JJ hopping out of the van. We had to park a few houses down because of how many cars there already are.
The music is blaring out of the house in the most sickening, gut-wrenching kind of way. The bass shakes everything, even the car. My hands shake violently as I try to undo my seatbelt, and I think my knees might give out as I step out of the car. I keep pushing though.
"We'll stay outside," says Pope. "We'll pull out front so we can leave as quickly as possible."
I don't respond. I don't even look back as I move miraculously fast to the thumping house. Kie's hand lands on my arm, making sure I stay steady, but I shrug her off. I need to feel like I'm in control. I need to find her.
From the front yard, I can tell that this party is different than Wheezie expected. At least from what she told me. There's hardly room to breathe, and we're not even in the house yet.
Inside, everything is too loud. Too bright. The whole thing is a mess of neon and spilled drinks and bodies draped over each other like it's the end of the world. My stomach lurches at the smell of sweat and stale beer and weed. In the corner, I swear I see a kid hunched over, snorting a line of something he's certainly too young to handle.
The guys are ahead of us, pushing through the crowd, vanishing into the chaos. Kie tries her best to shield me from incoming hands and elbows and jabs. My hands never leave my stomach. Don't fall. Don't get knocked. Don't get jostled. Just move.
One of my hands clutches my phone tight against my body, hanging on like maybe she'll call me again. Maybe she'll text. Anything. Kie's screaming at anyone who gets too close to me, but I doubt anyone's listening to her.
There's a couple pressed up against a wall, kissing, grinding, and I can't tell if she's into it or not. My head whips when another girl throws her arms up and her sticky, fruity drink rushes down my shoulder. I keep moving. Someone's elbow blows way too forcefully into my hip and I almost lose it.
Kie sees it all. "Move it!" she snaps. "She's pregnant, you idiot!"
Most people don't pay attention, but there are some strange looks and murmurs from around the room.
"Whore!" someone calls out.
"Aren't you too old to be here?" one guy yells, voice wired from what I can only imagine are hard, hard drugs.
His friend—beside him—slaps him on the chest. "Yeah, and too young to be knocked up!"
    "Fuck off!" Kie curses. She yells something else too, but everything sounds muffled, like it's underwater. I have one mission.
I spot the boys further in the house, talking to some intoxicated girl who slurs a few words before pointing vaguely up and towards the back of the house.
    A teenage boy tries to hand me a drink, but Kie shoves him away, sending the drink flying over a girl and her white dress. She's mad, but we don't stick around long enough to see the aftermath.
    The guys make it halfway up the staircase before something catches their attention and JJ runs off. John B. tries to hold him back, but he's already gone. John B. stays behind, though, and I plow through towards him.
    There are people kissing and gossiping and mingling on the stairs, and I accidentally step on a girl's hand on my way up. She shouts something crude, but I don't mind her any business.
    Finally, we meet back up with John B. Kie must have seen JJ run off.
    "Where is he? Why'd he leave?" she asks.
    John B. is sweaty and out of breath. "We saw a guy—way too old to be here. Like, thirties, maybe. JJ swore he had to be the guy, so he ran after him. I made eye contact with the guy, and, Sarah, I swear he recognized me. He bolted as soon as he saw us."
    My mind is spinning. "He knows us?"
    I never hear John B.'s answer because I keep moving, shoving past a few more heavy, drunk bodies before making it upstairs. There are at least five doors, and they're all shut. Shit.
    I just start knocking. The first one's unlocked, and inside is a girl who looks to have had ten too many drinks. When I reach the next door, there's rustling and shuffling, and someone yells, "Get lost!" My hands are shaking as I walk down the hallway.
Then, I'm at the third door. I knock on it softer than I did the other doors because somehow, part of me knows this is the one.
"Wheezie, it's me. It's Sarah." I wiggle the handle. Locked. "Good, baby. You listened. You locked the door. You did a good job, Wheeze, but I really need you to unlock it for me now."
There's no sound on the other side of the door. I freeze. I don't know what to do. Kie steps into my place and bangs on the door much louder than I did, yelling, "Wheezie, honey, you need to unlock the door. Come on, you can do it. Just turn the lock."
For the scariest few seconds, there's nothing again. Then, the smallest sound of fingers fumbling with the metal before it clicks unlocked with a struggle.
    I crack the door open as I take a deep breath, then I open it just enough to fit my body through. I step in slowly, like she's a bird and I don't want to spook her. As soon as I see her, I choke out a sob.
    "Holy shit," Kie says under her breath.
Wheezie is half scrunched, half-sprawled with her arms hung loosely at her sides and her knees pulled to her chest. She's leaning back against the bathtub, and her neck is bent at an angle that can't be comfortable. She's pale and sweaty, and there's hair plastered to the side of her face.
    "Hi, baby," I coo, finally close enough to touch her.
    "Sarah?" She's out of it, eyes rolling and head lolling to the side.
    I drop to my knees immediately, a wave of pain shooting through my legs and back. I mutter a curse but keep my focus otherwise on her. My hands skim over her body, frantically checking for bruises and scrapes—anything.
    It's her shirt that worries me the most. I remember tying it earlier today—fingers pulling the ties tight behind her back. Now, the ties are loose, and one strap has fallen all the way down to her elbow. The neckline was pulled so forcefully by something that it's ripped. I try to pull it up to cover her, but the material just falls back down and leaves her exposed.
    "Oh my God," I choke out.
    Kiara is quick thinking, stepping fully into the room and pulling her own shirt over her head, leaving her in just a bra and her jean shorts. She bends down next to us, and, together, we get the shirt over Wheezie's head.
    "Come on, Wheeze," Kie says softly when the girl won't move her arms into the shirt. "Arms through."
    It takes a few more moments for Wheezie to come back too, and then she's shivering like crazy. She looks frightened and confused, but she complies and helps us slide her arms through the shirt.
    "Good girl," Kiara sighs.
    Wheezie is still panicked, even though it's just us. "I don't—I didn't—"
    I take her into my arms, petting her hair and kissing her through my cries. "Hey, hey. It's okay. I'm here now. You're okay."
Wheezie slumps forward suddenly, groaning like her whole body aches. "I feel—gross—"
"Okay. Okay, that's okay." I pull her hair back instinctively, holding it away from her face like I did when we were little and she got food poisoning from bad gas station sushi. Only this is different. This is worse. She starts to gag again, dry heaving now, but nothing comes up.
"She's dehydrated," Kie says quietly, already moving to turn on the faucet and grab a clean washcloth. She soaks it in cold water and presses it into my hands.
I press it to Wheezie's forehead gently. She doesn't even react to the coolness of the towel.
"Was it just that one drink?" Kie asks, crouching back down beside us.
Wheezie blinks slowly. "I—he gave it to me. He said he'd—said I'd feel good." She looks up at me again, eyelids fluttering like she's trying to stay awake. "My body—it feels wrong."
Suddenly, I'm about to gag too, nauseous from the smell of bile and something chemical that I can't quite place, but I try my best to push it down. "I know, baby. I'm gonna get you home, okay?"
She just barely nods before gagging again. "Home..." Her voice trails off.
John B. pushes through the door, causing Wheezie to wince, and I scowl at him for being so loud. "Shit, sorry. She looks—"
"She's not okay," I tell him.
    "I'm hot," she moans, trying to claw out of Kie's shirt already. "I need—"
    Kie surveys the room, picking up Wheezie's shoes—I don't know why they're not on her feet—and her bag so we can leave. She picks up a red Solo cup from the corner and smells it, muttering, "Disgusting."
    "We need to get her out of here. She's not okay."
    Wheezie thrashes in my arms. Only half of her words are intelligible. "No—no hospital. I—Dad... mad."
    My heart drops out of my body. Dad. She's so out of it and not thinking straight that she doesn't even remember Ward dying. And I don't have the heart to tell her. I look frantically to John B., who looks just as helpless as I do. What do we say?
    I lift my shirt from over my belly and use it to wipe my eyes, although it's pretty useless with how freely the tears are continuing to flow. "He won't be mad, baby. I promise." I try to speak again, but my sobs steal my voice.
    "We're gonna take you home, okay? We're gonna go home, but you have to work with us, Wheeze. Can you stand?" Kie's brushing hair out of Wheezie's face as she talks, trying to keep her attention.
    "Yeah," she mumbles, but she doesn't move. She's not in control of her own body.
    John B. moves closer, saying, "I can carry her," but I shake my head immediately.
    "You'll scare her. She's not okay."
    He continues to inch forward anyway, crouching down so we're all level. "Hey, Sneeze," he whispers. "You remember me?"
    Wheezie's eyes roll back again, fully this time, and her head lolls completely to one side. I crunch forward, every muscle protesting, and take her face in my hands. I slap at her cheeks slightly, trying to wake her up.
    "No, no, no. You need to stay awake for me! Wheezie, look at me," I plead. "Please don't go to sleep. You gotta keep your eyes open for me, okay?"
    Her eyes flutter open for a few seconds before rolling back again. Her cheeks squish between my hand and suddenly I'm flashed back into a memory of her as a baby. I'm cooing and squishing her cheeks and making her laugh. The memory makes me feel sick again.
    "Hi, honey," I hum when she opens her eyes again. "All you need to do is stay awake, alright? John B.'s gonna carry you to the car."
    Her hands snake up to her shorts pockets. "I need my—I had it in my pocket—" I don't know what she's talking about.
    "We got it," Kie lies, quickly. "Don't worry about it. I got it, lovie."
"Okay," John B. murmurs low, watching carefully for any sudden movement from her. "I've got her."
He shifts closer, so careful it hurts to watch. He slides his arms underneath her slowly, like if he moves any quicker she'll break into shards. I keep one hand on her face until the last second, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay," over and over like a prayer.
When John B. adjusts and cradles her closer, her voice cracks into a half-conscious moan.
"You didn't do anything wrong," I whisper, leaning in so close I'm nearly nose to nose with her. "You hear me? Nothing. You're okay now. I'm here. We're gonna take care of you."
Wheezie's gaze flicks to mine for one second, maybe two. Her eyes well up, and a single tear rolls down toward her ear.
"I don't feel good," she slurs.
"I know, baby. I know," I whisper, stroking her hair again. "We're getting you out of here."
John B. nods, gritting his teeth as he stands with her in his arms. She doesn't resist. Her head drops against his shoulder, eyes drifting shut again.
    We move even quicker now than we did coming in, but the ocean of party-goers counteracts any speed we attempt. The sea of people seems even more oblivious than before, aside from a few strays.
    A girl pulls her phone out to film, and another calls from across the room, "Holy shit! She's fucked up!"
    I shove the girl, knocking her phone to the ground with a sharp crack!
    Then, a boy standing on the stairs whistles at Kiara, "Hey hot stuff! Need me to help you finish getting undressed?"
    Kie snatches a beer bottle from a bystander and chucks it at the guy. It hits the wall right beside his head and explodes. He curses at her and someone else screams, but we keep moving toward the front door.
    I grab hold of the back of John B.'s shirt for stability, and Kie pushes past us to lead. At some point, I get pushed to the right and collide with a Keg, shooting pain up the side of my thigh, but there's no time to look down.
    Wheezie is awake in his arms now, looking around frantically at the party. I can't tell if she knows what's happening or not.
    "John B.?" I see her lips firm over the music.
    He nods like crazy, moving hair from her forehead. "That's good, Wheeze. It's John B. We're gonna get you safe."
    I sob at the image. My husband and the father of my child cradling my baby sister in his arms like her life depends on it. I feel so old and so young at the same time. I feel stupid. This is my fault.
    Outside, Pope is already pulling the van in front of the house. Cleo hops out before it's fully stopped, throwing open the doors and laying down the back seats so there's a flat surface.
    "Lay her here!" Pope calls, voice tight with focus. John B. sets her down in the van, and Wheezie's hands immediately find and clutch her stomach.
"I feel sick," she groans.
Pope's hands hover over her body, not sure whether he's allowed to touch or not. "Roll her onto her side," he instructs. "She needs to be in the recovery position in case she throws up." He checks her pulse with two fingers. "Her heart's beating too fast. And her skin is burning up. This is bad."
"No hospital," I croak out, already knowing what he's thinking.
"Sarah, we might have to. I mean, if she overdoses—"
"She doesn't want to go to the hospital. We're going to my house." My choice is final.
I slide into the van next to her, resting her head in my lap, feeling the shake of her cries. Everyone else piles in too, but not JJ.
Kie is worried. "Why isn't he back yet?"
John B. is on top of the situation. "He's JJ. He'll be okay. He'll find us, I promise."
Wheezie tries to lift her head out of my lap, but she's not strong enough. "I'm sorry," she cries.
"Oh, no, baby. You did nothing wrong, okay? You have nothing to be sorry about."
"Shit, Sarah!" Cleo curses, shifting on the floor of the van. "Your leg!"
I follow her eyes to my thigh, where I find a mess of blood. It must have happened when I bumped into the keg, but I was too shocked to notice. "Oh—"
    Now John B. sees my thigh too. "Crap, baby, what did you do?"
    "I don't—I bumped into something inside, but I didn't even realize—"
    Cleo tears the bottom of her shirt and holds it tight to my leg. "We need to apply pressure until we get to the house. This is pretty gnarly, girl."
    Pope presses harder onto the pedal, driving faster than I've seen him drive since that one time he was high and crashed us on the side of the road. He's shaking his head. "I don't think we should go home," he says with uncertainty. "If this is as bad as I think—if these were opiates—she's going to need Narcan."
    I snap. "I already said, no hospitals!"
    "I know, I know," he says, dragging a hand down his face. "But I can take us to Barry's. He has Narcan, I know he does—and he owes me from when I gave him some free bait a few weeks ago."
    "Barry, Pope?!" Kie yells. "That's your idea?!"
    His hand slams down on the steering wheel, and Wheezie starts crying again. I'm the only one that notices. "Well, I don't know! What else?"
    "Literally anybody else!"
    "There isn't—"
    I cut him off. "I have Narcan!" I call over the fight. Everything stops.
    John B. twists in the front seat to face me. "What?"
    "You have Narcan? Why?"
    I wipe my cheeks with my hand. "I bought some when Rafe first moved back here. I was so nervous he was still using and I'd have to save him one day, so I bought a stash."
    Pope is fully attentive. "And you still have it? At the new house?"
    I nod. "Yeah—yeah. I have some in the bathroom closet."
    "Good," he mutters. "But it'd be even better if she could get it out on her own."
    On cue, Wheezie starts dry heaving again. Her body is convulsing so violently that I'm sure it'll break a rib. No matter how fiercely she gags, though, nothing comes up.
    "She needs to throw up," Kie states. We all know it's true.
    "Well, she isn't!" I cry. "I don't know how—"
    "You need to make her throw up," Pope dictates from the front of the van.
    I shake my head, remembering the things I researched when I thought Rafe might have been using. "But I thought you weren't supposed to—"
    "We have no choice. Sarah, you need to do it."
I squeeze my eyes shut and wince as I start moving my fingers toward her mouth and to the back of her throat, but before I make it fully, I gag—for real this time. "I'm gonna be sick," I gurgle.
"I'll do it," Kie grits, moving closer.
Wheezie shakes her head and kicks her legs as much as the drugs will allow. "No. No, no—please no."
I know it has to be done, but I can't bear it. I look away, but I can hear it all. Her fingers move back towards Wheezie's throat until they reach its threshold and the gagging starts. She gags a few times before something comes up, but it's nothing more than a mouthful of bile that empties onto my thigh and wound. It burns.
"Damn it, that's not enough," Kie mutters under her breath.
Wheezie hears it. "I'm sorry," she cries. "I'm trying—"
"You're doing great, baby. It's not your fault." I cradle her head in my arms, pressing kisses over and over again to her temple.
Pope sighs, "We're still going to have to use Narcan at home. The drugs are still in her system."
Somehow, we make it home in a flash. I don't know how long or short it's been, but we're here. Pope practically teleports out of the front seat, and John B. moves twice as quick. Cleo slides the door open, and Kie moves out behind her. I can't move yet.
"John B., I need you to take her," I say through tears. "I can't."
"Can you walk, Wheeze," he asks to be polite, but we all know she can't. He doesn't even wait for her to answer, just scoops her up and runs her up the stairs. I can see from the van that the front door is already open. Cleo must have used the door code to get in.
Pope ducks into the van and puts his hand out for me to grab. "Come on, Cammie. You're okay."
    My legs almost give out when I stand, but he grabs me under my arms and helps me to the house. The walk up the stairs and into the front door is a blur, but as soon as I'm inside, I wriggle out of Pope's grasp and hurl myself upstairs to the master bathroom.
    I rummage and search, knocking over hairbrushes and razors and makeup bags. Nothing. My hands tremble as I yank open the cabinet under the sink—tampons, extra soaps, nothing useful.
    I take a sharp, painful breath in when I stand back up, the motion sending searing pain through my wound.
    "Come on, come on," I whisper, limping to the closet. I pull down baskets and topple over a stack of fresh towels, until—there.
    The Narcan box is standing untouched directly next to my first positive pregnancy test. I put the test in there the night I found out, stuffing it far back so John B. wouldn't find out, but I looked at it in secret every night. But tonight, seeing it next to the one thing that can save my baby sister's life, I don't let myself feel. I just move.
When I get back downstairs, Pope has already cleaned off a spot in the living room and has Wheezie lying flat on the floor. She's awake, barely—blinking slowly, her limbs slack like they don't belong to her.
    "Sarah?" she mumbles, eyes drifting toward me but not quite landing. "I can't feel my arms."
    My chest caves in, but I hold it together. I squat to my knees beside her, brushing the damp hair off her forehead. "I'm right here, baby. Just hang on."
    I tear the Narcan box open with shaking hands and pass the nasal spray to Pope. He gives her a look—soft, careful—like he doesn't want to scare her but knows we don't have time to wait.
    "Hey," he says gently, "I'm gonna give you something that'll help you feel better, okay? You just gotta trust me."
    She nods faintly, barely a movement, but it's enough. Pope slides the nozzle into her nose and presses the plunger.
    Wheezie winces. "I don't like it. It feels weird," she murmurs, blinking.
    "I know," Pope says. "That means it's working."
    She groans softly and turns her face into John B.'s shirt. "I feel like I'm gonna puke again."
    "That's okay," I nod, aware that puking might be the best-case scenario in her situation.
    Cleo comes up behind me and presses a damp towel to my thigh. I hadn't even realized until this point that I've been bleeding openly over our new carpet and furniture. Luckily, Cleo is cleaning it all before anything gets stained.
    John B. pulls Wheezie into him. "I'm gonna get you to the bathroom, okay?"
She doesn't answer, just nods faintly against his chest, barely able to lift her head. He lifts her gently, arms secure, and carries her like she's his own.
I trail behind them, limping more than walking, until we're in the hallway bathroom. John B. lowers her to the tile, gently propping her up against the side of the tub. Wheezie curls over, groaning again.
Then she vomits. Hard. This time it isn't just bile—she vomits up everything her body had tried to hold back. It splashes into the toilet in waves, loud and wet and awful. Her arms are draped over the seat, trembling, her body shaking like I've never seen it. John B. is kneeling beside her, one hand bracing her back while the other tucks her hair behind her ear.
I sink down onto the edge of the bathtub and just sit there, watching her. My fingers are sticky with sweat, my leg still pulsing, my stomach twisted in knots. I don't know how we made it through that car ride. I don't know how we didn't lose her.
I press my hand to my mouth and breathe through my nose. I can't cry anymore. I'm fresh out.
Pope comes in a minute later with a small first-aid kit. He kneels in front of me and lifts Cleo's towel from my thigh. I wince.
"Sorry," he murmurs.
"Looks bad?" I ask, already bracing myself.
He gives a half-smile. "Eh. You did a number to yourself, Cameron, but I don't think you'll need stitches." He starts cleaning around it with something that stings like hell. I jump and hiss through my teeth.
He glances up at me. "How many times have I cleaned you up now? Three?"
I snort, though it's mostly air. "That I can remember."
"I ought to start charging you," he says, concentrating on dabbing antibiotic cream along the gash.
A small laugh bubbles out of me, hoarse and half-hearted. "There was the night I tripped over the wrapping paper and busted my chin open."
Pope nods. "Yup. Blood all over the tile. Thought John B. was gonna faint before you."
"Then the time John B. and Kelce fought outside the courthouse and I got caught in the middle."
"Busted lip," he says, pulling a bandage from the kit.
"Yeah, and I say that was all John B.'s fault."
He presses the bandage gently over my wound and leans back, satisfied. "Cleaned up. It'll scab over in a few days, so just let it heal and make sure it doesn't open back up again. I will be checking in regularly to make sure you're behaving." He pats my shoulder lightly before getting up and exiting the room.
I glance over at Wheezie again. She's still curled over the toilet, dry-heaving, while John B. whispers to her in a voice so low I can't make out the words.
    I reach over and rest a hand on John B.'s arm. "Hey. Can I have a minute? Just me and her?"
    He glances down at Wheezie, who's still curled against the toilet, body trembling less now. "Yeah," he says, nodding softly. He stands and brushes her hair away one last time. "I'll be right outside."
    When the door closes behind him, I slide off the tub's edge and onto the tile beside her. I tuck my legs underneath me, ignoring the pull in my muscles.
    Wheezie's breathing is less shallow now as she comes to. Her face is pale and streaked with sweat and tears, but she's here. Finally, she's here.
    "I need to ask you something," I whisper. "And I want you to be honest, but you don't have to tell me if it's too much."
    She nods against the toilet seat, barely.
    "Do you remember what happened?"
    Her mouth moves before her voice comes. "Kind of. He gave me the drink. Told me it was better than what I had. I thought it was weird, but he was intimidating and I didn't want to say no." Her voice cracks. "I didn't know."
    "You didn't do anything wrong," I say immediately, my voice sharp with truth. "Wheeze, I swear."
    She nods again. "I remember the music. It got really loud. Then I felt weird, sick. My shirt..." Her fingers twitch near her collarbone. "I remember looking down and it was all messed up. Ripped. I think—I don't think he got to do anything else, but I remember him looking at me like—like I wasn't even a person."
    I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting the rage curling in my chest. "You got away," I whisper. "You fought, and you got away."
    She leans into me, and I cradle her again like I did in the van, even though every part of me is exhausted. "I've got you, baby. No one's ever going to touch you again."
    I don't know how much time passes—ten minutes, maybe—but the sound of the front door opening cuts through the silence. There's a stream of loud, heavy footsteps through the house. Then JJ's voice, low but furious, carries from the living room.
    "I chased him. Out through the back gate near the pool." He's still out of breath from the chase. "Lost him in the street."
    There's a shuffle—someone moving on the couch, maybe Cleo or Kie—and then Pope murmurs something I can't catch.
    JJ, sharper this time, says, "He knew. I swear to God, he knew who she was. You don't just pick someone out of a crowd like that unless you planned it."
    I look down quickly at Wheezie. She's still tucked against the toilet, head heavy against John B.'s chest. Her eyes are shut, lashes damp, but she's not asleep. She's just resting her eyes, hiding from everything that just happened. I don't want her hearing any of this.
    Pain tugs at my back again—deep, low, and pulling. I wince and shift on the edge of the bathtub, one hand instinctively going to my belly. I breathe through it.
JJ keeps going. "I think he'd been watching us. Watching her. This wasn't random."
Pope says something in response—steady, measured—but I can't hear it. I can't listen to any more.
"Let's get you upstairs, yeah?" I say, not waiting for an answer. I know John B. is still on the other side of the door, so I call out, "Baby, can you help me lift her?" My voice cracks halfway through, but it's enough.
    The door creaks open, and John B. steps in quietly. I look up, expecting him to come straight to Wheezie, but she shifts in my arms and sits up a little.
    "I want to walk," she whispers, voice scratchy and small.
    John B. glances at me, uncertain, but I nod. "Okay. We'll go slow." I help her sit up fully, and she plants her feet on the ground with shaky determination.
    John B. doesn't argue—he just stays close, a silent safety net in case she collapses. Her legs tremble like crazy, but she keeps walking, one foot in front of the other. She leans into me, and I hold onto her, guiding her out of the bathroom and up the stairs.
    We don't say anything. We just breathe, move, climb.
    Once we reach my room, I sit her down gently on the edge of my bed. I go to the dresser and dig through the drawers until I find the pajamas—our old matching set. Silly clouds and moons printed all over pale blue cotton—the ones our grandparents got us for Christmas a few years ago. I grew out of mine months ago. Wheezie grew out of hers too, but I never had the heart to throw mine away.
    I hold the pair up. "You can wear mine tonight," I say softly.
    She nods, the smallest smile twitching at her lips. I help her change, careful not to look too closely at the bruises on her ribs or the raw skin near her collarbone. I don't comment. I just move slowly and gently until she's in clean clothes and tucked beneath the covers.
    She shivers once, curling onto her side. I slide in next to her, sitting on top of the blankets so she doesn't feel trapped, and begin raking my fingers through her hair.
    "I'm here, Wheeze," I whisper, brushing a knotted strand back. "You're safe. Nothing's gonna happen now."
    Her breathing is shallow at first, uneven. I keep my hand on her back, rubbing small circles the way Evelyn used to when we were kids and couldn't sleep. Her body finally starts to relax beneath my touch. Her lids shut peacefully.
    Then she whispers, small and hoarse, "Please don't tell Rafe."
    My hand stills.
    "I'm embarrassed."
    I bite the inside of my cheek, the war already raging in my chest. I know I have to tell him. He's her brother. He'll never forgive me if I don't. But right now? I nod.
    "Okay," I whisper, kissing her temple. "I won't."
    What I really mean is, "I won't tonight," or, "I won't yet," but I don't tell her that. I just want her to sleep.
    Her eyes drift shut again, lashes wet, and I keep stroking her hair and rubbing her back until her breathing slows. Her fingers twitch once in the blanket, then go still.
    Eventually, John B. peeks in, barefoot and quiet. He sees her asleep and lets the door close gently behind him before walking to my side of the bed.
    "She out?" he whispers.
    I nod, not taking my eyes off her. "For now."
    He moves to my side, crouching slightly. "JJ said that guy might've been watching her. Said he thinks it was deliberate."
    "I heard you guys talking."
    "The others went down the street to JJ and Kie's," he murmurs. "They wanted to give us some space. Pope stayed, just in case."
    I nod, still gently rubbing Wheezie's back in slow, rhythmic circles. Her breathing has evened out. She's finally asleep, but my hand doesn't stop.
    John B. eases on the side of the bed, careful not to make it creak or groan under him. He reaches for my free hand and laces his fingers through mine.
    "You should sleep," he says quietly. "This isn't good for you—not good for the baby."
    "I know," I whisper, voice thick with exhaustion. "I just... I don't want to leave her."
He watches me for a moment with that look—soft, steady, unflinching. The look that sees straight through me. I'm not fooling him by acting strong.
"I'll stay up," he offers. "I'll check on her every hour. I'll wake you if she stirs. But, Sarah, you need to rest."
His thumb rubs over my knuckles, slow and warm. I know he means it, but the idea of closing my eyes, even for a minute, feels impossible.
"I just... what if she wakes up and I'm not here?" My voice breaks. "What if she thinks I left?"
"She won't," he says gently. "She's safe with us, and she knows it."
I look down at Wheezie. She's curled tight, fists balled against her chest under the covers, but her face has softened in sleep. Some of the tightness is gone. Some of the fear too.
Still, I don't move. I feel anchored to this spot, like if I shift, the weight will tip and she'll disappear again.
John B. watches me for a second longer. Then he lets go of my hand and stands. "You don't have to leave her," he says softly. "Stay. Sleep here with her. I'll bring your pillow."
My shoulders sag in relief, but my heart also breaks at his face. At the fact that he's sacrificing himself for my needs. "What about you?" I ask, realizing that I can't be in two places at once.
He just leans down and kisses me—once, slow and patient. He disappears for a minute, and when he comes back, he's holding my pregnancy pillow and the blanket I've slept with most nights since I was a baby. Admittedly, I didn't have it on any treasure hunt trips, but I don't know if I ever really slept on those anyway. I breathe into the small strip of aged fabric. It smells like the good parts of home.
He eases the pillow behind my back, careful not to wake Wheezie, and adjusts it so my hips won't ache in the morning. Then he pulls the blanket over my legs.
"There," he whispers. "Now you won't hurt too much when you wake up." He leans down and kisses my forehead, lips lingering. "I'll be right outside if you need anything. Try to sleep, baby."
He steps out again, closing the door halfway behind him. The room dips into silence. I shift carefully so I'm lying beside Wheezie, not too close, just enough that she knows I'm here. My hand stays on her back, fingers still brushing softly.
I stare at the ceiling for a long time, listening to her breathe. My body aches in every direction—my ribs, my lower back, my heart—but when her hand twitches again and curls softly around the edge of my shirt, I let my eyes close.
I'm going to stay there beside her the whole night. I won't move. I won't dare. I whisper one last promise into the quiet room, unsure who it's for—her, the baby, myself.
"I'm right here."
And then, finally, I let sleep take me too.