“Lily?” His voice is much louder now. “Lily, where are you?”

I hate myself, because he knows the tears are mine.

“Atlas,” I whisper. “I need help.”

“Where are you?” he says again. I can hear panic in his voice. I can hear him walking, moving stuff around. I hear a door slam on his end of the phone.

“I’ll text you,” I whisper, too scared to keep speaking. I don’t want Ryle to wake up. I hang up the phone and somehow find the strength to still my hands while I text him my address and the access code for entry. Then I send a second text that says Text me when you get here. Please don’t knock.

I crawl to the kitchen and find my pants, struggling back into them. I find my shirt on the counter. When I’m dressed, I go to the living room. I debate opening the door and meeting Atlas downstairs, but I’m too scared I won’t be able to make it down to the lobby alone. My forehead is still bleeding and I feel too weak to even stand up and wait by the door. I slide to the floor, clenching my phone in my shaky fist and staring at it, waiting for his text.

It’s an agonizing twenty-four minutes later when my phone lights up.

Here.

I scramble to my feet and swing open the door. Arms wrap around me and my face is pressed against something soft. I just start crying and crying and shaking and crying.

“Lily,” he whispers. I’ve never heard my name spoken so sadly. He urges me to look up at him. His blue eyes scroll over my face, and I see it happen. I watch the concern vanish as he darts his head up to the apartment door. “Is he still in there?”

Rage.

I can feel the rage come off of him and he starts to step toward the apartment door. I grab his jacket in my fists. “No. Please, Atlas. I just want to leave.”

I see the pain roll over him as he pauses, struggling to decide whether to listen to me or bust through the door. He eventually turns away from the door and wraps his arms around me. He helps me to the elevator and then through the lobby. By some miracle, we only run into one person and he’s on his phone and facing the other direction.

By the time we make it to the parking garage, I start to feel dizzy again. I tell him to slow down, and then I feel his arm wrap under my knees as he picks me up. Then we’re in the car. Then the car is moving.

I know I need stitches.

I know he’s taking me to the hospital.

But I have no idea why the next words out of my mouth are, “Don’t take me to Mass General. Take me somewhere else.”

For whatever reason, I don’t want to risk the chance of running into any of Ryle’s colleagues. I hate him. I hate him in this moment more than I’ve ever hated my father. But concern for his career still somehow breaks through the hatred.