"That's okay. With rest, you might start to remember more details. Just don't push too hard," he assures me. "We can revisit this when your mind is clearer."

"No." The word comes out sharper than intended. "That's all I can remember. I was alone and blacked out before I woke up here."

The lie comes easily, born from years of protecting others before myself. Maybe it was just another hallucination, another trick of my trauma-addled brain. But deep down, beneath the fog of medication and fear, I know—I know that voice, and the thought of what Nate would do if he knew terrifies me more than any lie.

Dr. Aldridge studies me, his clipboard hanging loosely at his side.

"This is classified as a hit and run, Nora. A serious one—you could have died on that road if you hadn't been found. The police will follow up as protocol, so note down anything you remember."

He gestures to the notepad on my bedside table, pristine and waiting for truths I'm not ready to tell. "I'm here if you need to talk."

"Thank you," I manage, words feeling hollow and inadequate.

His smile is gentle but strained.

"Ready for visitors? Your mother and brother are waiting, but we can hold off if you need rest."

I think of Mom, haunting waiting room chairs for three weeks, living the same nightmare she endured with Dad. My fingers find the 'fearless' bracelet again, its familiar edges grounding me in this new reality where truth and lies dance on a knife's edge.

"You can send them in."

"Sure, I'll check in a little later."

As he leaves, I wonder how many more lies I'll have to tell before this is over, and whether the truth might destroy more than just me.

The blue curtain whispers aside, and Mom and Ollie rush in. The sight of them makes my heart ache with a different kind of pain—one that no amount of morphine can touch.

"Hey sweetie." Mom freezes, her hand flying to her mouth to cage a sob. "My god. I thought I⁠⁠—"

"Mom, I'm okay. I'm here." The words feel both true and false on my tongue, like trying to speak two languages at once.

Ollie doesn't hesitate—he surges forward, wrapping me in an embrace so careful it breaks my heart.

"Fuck, Nor. Please don't scare me like that." His voice cracks and he's fighting back tears that seem to be welling in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," I whisper, ignoring how my broken body screams at his touch. This moment isn't about my pain—it's about his relief, about the four weeks of fear finally releasing its grip on his heart.

When he steps back, Mom approaches like I might disappear if she moves too quickly, as if I'm made of morning mist that could evaporate in direct sunlight.