I pressed my palms against my thighs, feeling the rough denim under my hands. They were Matthew's jeans, borrowed and too long in the legs, but they smelled like his detergent instead of antiseptic.
Matthew returned carrying two plates, steam rising from mounds of colorful vegetables and rice. The aroma hit me first—ginger and soy sauce, sesame oil, and the sharp bite of fresh garlic. It was real food prepared with attention instead of grabbed from vending machines or stolen from hospital cafeterias.
He set one plate on the coffee table within my reach and settled into his chair across from me. With a fork in one hand, he took a bite and chewed slowly, staring at me.
I picked at the vegetables—bright green snow peas and orange carrots. Everything was hot and properly seasoned.
"You owe me the story." Matthew's voice was calm. He might have been commenting on the weather. "The freeway. The bullet. All of it."
My fork stopped halfway to my mouth. I set it down carefully, buying time. Three days of surveillance. Start there. Black sedan, government plates. That much was true. Everything else... I'd figure it out as I went.
I swallowed the bite I'd been chewing, tasting ginger. "What do you want to know?"
"Start at the beginning. Before the hospital. Before the accident." He took another bite, giving me space to think. "Hoyle's people are hunting you. Why now?"
It was a fair question. He'd let me bleed on his furniture, and he offered me food while I brought unknown dangers to his doorstep.
"They'd caught up to me and were following me." That part was easy to say. "Three days before the accident. Black sedan, government plates, but not official government."
Matthew's chewing slowed. He listened, filing details away like trauma assessments.
"I ditched my apartment and switched cars twice. Thought I'd lost them in the International District—narrow streets, lots of foot traffic, easy to disappear." I pushed rice around my plate, building small mountains and valleys. "But they were better than I expected. Professional."
"And you're sure it was Hoyle's people? Not his victims?"
I nodded. "Had to be him. No one else has that kind of reach or that kind of patience."
Matthew set his fork down, giving me his full attention. "Walk me through the night it happened."
Despite my injuries, my memories remained crystal clear. Rain on windshields and the taste of copper in my mouth. The weight of blood soaking through the fabric I wore.
"I was driving south on I-5—stolen SUV—dark, forgettable, easy to blend with evening traffic. That's when I spotted the tail."
"How?"
"Glint off a side mirror. Wrong angle for normal traffic patterns. They were hanging back, staying in my blind spot, but they'd made one mistake—forgot to dirty their windshield."
Matthew leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He listened without judging or interrupting, as he probably listened to patients in crisis.
"I tried to lose them at the Boeing Access Road, but a second vehicle appeared." I reached out and traced routes on the coffeetable's surface. "They boxed me in between the concrete barriers and the guardrail."
"That's when they took the shot?"
I stopped moving my hands and pressed my palms flat against my thighs.
"Through the passenger window. Muffled crack. Perfect angle. Professional work." My voice went flat. Clinical. Safe. "The bullet cut through the glass first and lost some velocity. That's probably what saved me."
Matthew's mug sat cooling on the coffee table between us, steam no longer rising from the surface. The apartment seemed smaller suddenly, like the walls were listening.
"It felt like being punched from the inside. Like someone had reached through my skin and grabbed something vital." I brushed the spot reflexively, fingers finding the edge of Matthew's careful bandaging through my borrowed shirt. "I remember thinking that was it. That I'd finally run out of luck."
I tensed as I remembered the moment of impact. It wasn't the sharp pain I'd expected. It was a dull, spreading weight that seemed to expand through my ribcage like spilled liquid.
"But you kept driving."
"Shock, probably. Adrenaline. It was like the SUV was moving through water—everything slow, thick, and wrong." I remembered how the steering wheel slipped in my blood-slick palms. "I knew I was losing consciousness. My vision tunneled, peripheral awareness shutting down sector by sector."
The next memories were fragmented puzzle pieces, scattered by trauma and blood loss.
