ROGER (Read Until 7/31)

N I N E T E E N

I never thought the sounds of hospital beeps could be so comforting. The memories I had of them weren't at all. They weren't pretty. More like triggers, really. I'd always associate the sound with loss.

First, we lost my dad, but I was so young, I remembered the beeps from his hospital room more than I remembered his face. After him, we lost my grandmother. One would think I'd remember her kindness over her illness, but deathbeds are hard to forget.

And lastly left my mother, my sole provider, the only family I had left. By then, I was so programmed to connect hospitals with death, it took me over a week to step into her room. I was in denial... her doctor visit had only been a check-up. Yet... after seven days and no taxi home, I knew it was time. It'd just scared me to death. You know, the beeps and having to say goodbye...

This time, this was different.

I felt my eyes slide under their shut lids, a warmth on my face. That searing pain had gone, the heat on my skin was nothing but cotton blankets. The quiet beep, beep, beep told me death hadn't come for me, but life. Life welcomed me back. I was alive, I had a heartbeat.

I thought if I'd really done it, you know? Had I run back into that building with no idea what to do...and did it?

I think so.

My hands gripped the blankets at my side, and I swallowed the copper taste in my mouth. Copper and something else—sour? Meds—had to be. With a groan, I opened my eyes.

"Hey!" Matthews voice was so loud, it hurt my ears. "You're up! Woo, you're up! Man, I was worried sick! You good?"

I'm good?

I lifted my hands to rub my face and felt the tug of an IV in my arm. It blurred in and out for a few seconds before it became clear. Then I saw Matthews face and blinked.

"Yo! She good!" he yelled.

Please, stop yelling.

Matthews beamed at me as he dropped down on a seat beside my bed. I was surprised that he waited around, it was nice. Maybe it was because I'd went back and saved him; or maybe it'd been that he and I were more or less friends. But that wasn't why I blinked at him. I was confused.

"How you feelin'?" he asked me.

There were light bruises on his face; some yellow, some pale green. A scab sat over his lip, nearly healed. A second set of simple, plastic stitches held a gash together on his forehead; that too nearly healed. When I'd gone back in that room, the majority of the blood I'd seen on the floor was his. And yet, seeing him here beside me, he looked like the fight had happened weeks ago.

My throat burned as I formed words. "Was I out?"

He laughed, beaming with relief. "Ah shit, sweetheart. You've been out a good while. Never got the chance to thank ya."

I wanted to smile. "What's a good while?"

"Two months."

Someone else spoke. A voice not as deep as his; an accent not so thick. But I knew it.

Roger.

I moved my eyes first to look around. It was my room back at the base, but they'd spruced it up for injuries. The monitors were out of date, old hospital equipment; their screens did nothing but show my body temps and heartbeat. There was a large TV near the window, but it wasn't on. I knew he was somewhere within the room, nestled warmly on a digital screen, watching me. Waiting.

Did he wait like Matthews did?

"Two months?" I asked and tried to sit up.

"Don't." He spoke again, but this time it was different. I caught the smile on Matthews face as feet slowly turned into my room. I stared down at the combat boots with their loose laces and up at the trousers, folded at the ankle but wrinkled by the knee. Strong, lean hands were pressed into front pockets; a white tee hung loosely around the waist.