The toneless way she speaks ramps up my anxiety, but I cover my worry with overenthusiasm, grinning wide as I reassure her, “Don’t worry about me. This is nothing.” I wave a dismissive hand at the claw marks. “They’ll be healed up in a day or two.”

The light changes, but we don’t move forward. Zoey stares at my chest as if it’s a puzzle she can’t solve.

“Zoey, the light’s green.” I keep my voice gentle, afraid to startle her.

She shakes her head, but still wears a dazed expression as she accelerates.

We get halfway down Main Street before she parallel parks in front of Sawdust and Supplies.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“You said you didn’t need to go to the doctor,” she mumbles, eyes on her hands.

“I don’t. But you do. And I’m not sending you there on your own.”

Her forehead drops, coming to rest on the steering wheel. The dejected curve of her body screams exhaustion, and I silently curse myself for not insisting on driving. I thought she’d prefer to have the control of being behind the wheel.

I climb out of the truck, close the door behind me, and circle around to the driver’s side. Zoey barely turns her head when I pull her door open. She stares at me blankly as I unbuckle her seat belt.

“Scoot over.”

She follows my order slowly, as if navigating through quicksand. Once she’s situated on the passenger side, I take over driving the rest of the way.

Our time in the emergency room is surprisingly quick.

Without anything to hide my scratches, the nurse on duty insists on disinfecting and wrapping the wounds before handing over a T-shirt with their logo on it. I let her, especially because getting worked on means I stay close to Zoey as she has her arm stitched up. But with us being the only two at the clinic, we’re treated fast, and it’s not long before I’m driving us to the Gunners’ cabin.

Only once I’ve parked do I realize Zoey has dozed off. I’d like to think she fell asleep because she’s so comfortable in my presence. But this is pure exhaustion.

“Zoey?”

She doesn’t twitch.

I walk around to her side of the car, popping open the door. Her head lolls to the side at an angle that’ll give her major neck pain if she stays in that position much longer. Again, I try to rouse her.

“Zoey? We’re home. You ready to go inside?” Gently, I smooth my hand down her arm.

She stirs, shifts, then settles again on the old leather seat.

Clearly, Zoey is already in bedtime mode.

My fingers smooth stray hairs away from her closed eyes. “Do you mind if I carry you inside? You can keep sleeping.”