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THE FIRST PERSON I SEE is Dr. Mendoza. When my eyes snap open, she's leaning over me, her eyebrows knit in concern, placing an ice-cold wash rag on my forehead.
In a moment of panic, having forgotten what happened, I sit up so fast black spots dance across my vision and red-hot pain shoots through my wrists: I whimper at this. Dr. Mendoza, her eyes widening ever-so-slightly, takes a step away from me, dusting her hands off on the front of her dress. She doesn't say anything.
"Oh, thank God," somebody else says, their voice cracking, and I finally realize where I am, that there are other people here besides me and Dr. Mendoza and this isn't some weirdass dream.
I'm sitting on top of my kitchen counter, and several people stand against the walls, all of them somewhere between awkward, bored, and nervous: my dad, Atlas, Nicole. Dusty white early-morning light spills through the window, lightening the room in the way that creamer lightens coffee. My dad'd been the one to speak.
All of a sudden, both he and Atlas rush forwards, speaking over one another so that I can't understand a word of what they say. Nicole stays at the wall, refusing to look in my direction.
Dr. Mendoza shushes them. "Don't overwhelm him."
Atlas, however, pretends as if he didn't hear her. "Cain," he says, and he throws his arms around my neck, burying his head in my shoulder. "Cain, you almost died. You promised you'd be safe. You promised you'd kick her ass for me, but — "
Dr. Mendoza clears her throat. "Boys. I'm right here."
My head swims. The memories of what happened had been as foggy as the light outside, but they suddenly seem to crash down on top of me. I want to cry; I want to hurt someone; I want to curl into a ball and sleep until the end of the world. I cling to Atlas, desperate for something that's normal and comforting and good and real, wondering how long you're legally allowed to hug someone until it starts getting weird because I don't ever want to let go of him.
"I'm sorry," is all that I can say, and my voice is weak and soft and vulnerable and I hate it I hate it I hate it.
I hate what all of this has made me into.
Dr. Mendoza clears her throat again, signaling that this is the legal limit for how long you're allowed to hug someone. Atlas lingers for a second before stepping away from me, but I don't want him to leave me, not now, not ever. I shakily push myself from the counter (my entire body burns) and stand behind him, sliding my hand into his. Not a romantic gesture, not even a platonic one, but one of complete dependency. He's my lifeline: in this moment, he's the one thing keeping me from breaking. He squeezes my hand to let me know he's here and he understands.
