It had been only twenty minutes, maybe twenty-five, that he’d been in the draug’s power. Michael had survived a whole lot longer than that, and he was just fine.

He’s going to be all right.

But the way he was holding her felt … strange. Tentative. It was more than the weakness.

“Hey,” she said to him, resting her head against his chest. His heart was beating fast, but it sounded strong and regular. “What happened in there?”

“Where?” he asked. He was with her, but he sounded … empty. Or at least, very far away.

“Where you were.” Still are.

“I’m fine,” he said, which didn’t answer her question at all. “You smell like gunpowder.”

“New perfume,” she said, straight-faced. “Do you like it?”

“Edgy,” he said, which was almost his old self, but phoned in, again, from a long way off.

“Shane—”

“I can’t,” he said, very softly. “I can’t talk about it right now, okay? Just—leave it.”

She didn’t want to, because the look in his eyes, the way he was holding her … It made her anxious all over again. It felt, somehow, as if they hadn’t found him, or at least not in time. As if part of him was still trapped.

She just curled closer to him, willing him to be all right, and said nothing else all the way back. His body was there, solid and living, but there was something else that just wasn’t there, and when she looked up into his eyes, she didn’t see … didn’t see Shane. Not completely.

“He okay?” Of all things, it was Monica asking that question, crouched awkwardly on her broken heels with her brother standing silently behind her. She looked as if she was actually, momentarily, interested. “I mean, Jesus, that’s a lot of blood.”

“He’s okay,” Claire answered, when Shane didn’t. His eyes were closed, but he wasn’t unconscious; he was holding on to her tightly and shivering. “Just—he needs to heal, that’s all.” Her voice shook when she said it, and Monica shot her a swift, mercilessly piercing look. There was blood in her hair, Shane’s blood, drying in a stiffened patch.

“News flash, preschool, nobody’s okay right now, and most of us didn’t have that happen.” She stood up suddenly, her expression hardening, and tugged at her dress. “I came back here to get help, not to get dragged off to rescue your lame, limp ass, Collins. So you could be a little grateful.”

Shane slowly raised one hand, and … flipped her off. It was weak, but it was so very him that Claire almost cried.

Monica almost smiled. Almost. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s what I thought. Truce over, asshole. Next time I see you bleeding on the side of the road, I back up and run you over again.”

“Monica,” Richard said, in a tone that said he’d had enough. More than enough. She shut up and pressed herself against the wall of the armored truck as it bumped and shuddered along. “Claire, is he still bleeding?”