Katie’s thin brows are knit as I sit next to her and stare at her drawings. They’re of Adam. Each one captures a different side of him—his deviant smirk, his softer, genuine smile, the intensity in his eyes and his brow when he’s unlocking something the rest of us wouldn’t understand. One sketch depicts him that day in the lunchroom just after the Navy Pier attack. He’s throwing his hand out and saying, “Your pettiness never fails to disappoint.” That one’s too painful, and I avert my eyes.

When Katie looks up, her concentrated expression doesn’t change. She scans my face, the red-flowered plant in my lap. She cradles a sketchbook against her chest and leans back in her chair. She doesn’t ask me how I am. If I was hurt. She doesn’t throw her arms around me and commiserate with how awful the last forty-eight hours have been.

“How is he?”

Katie’s face is deadpan when she answers. “Not good.”

My chest squeezes tighter until I’m sure my lungs will collapse. I nod my head and grit my teeth, trying to hold it in. “Has he woken up?”

Katie shakes her head. The movement is tiny. Controlled. “He made it through surgery. He has stitches on his face and head. Fractured ribs, cheekbone. Broken leg. But it’s the internal bleeding they’re worried about.”

The near-empty waiting room feels claustrophobic. Sweat breaks out along my forehead.

When I came here with my mom after my dad’s attack, the press wanted a statement from us. They wouldn’t leave us alone. The hospital staff had to set up blockades in the hallways. They hid us in a room in the ICU, where we waited to hear whether my dad would win his fight. Doctors operated for so many hours I lost track. My mom fielded calls from our relatives as the afternoon turned into night, and the outcome became grimmer. When the doctor came to tell us my dad was dead, his scrubs were speckled with my father’s blood.

I put the plant on the table beside me and pull off the bag slung across my body, as if that will help. “Why did it have to be this hospital?”

Katie slams the sketchbook against the stack in her lap, rattling the colored pencils beside her. “Because his dad works here.” Her voice shakes. “His dad is the plastic surgeon who’s been piecing Adam back together.”

I look toward the rooms like his dad is about to walk out of one of them. I don’t remember if I knew his dad worked here. My eyes flicker back to Katie.

“You didn’t think about that, did you?”

“It hasn’t been easy . . .” I begin, but Katie silences me.