I stare at him, because there are a thousand reasons. Like how his dad is dead and his mom would rather he didn't exist and he thinks he's all alone in the world, even though he's not, because he has me—for however little that's worth—and if anything happened to him...

I say: "He's had a rough time lately."

Doctor Carl nods. "We'll have to keep him for a few days for observation and to have a psych evaluate his mental state. We've only just got in touch with your mother when she arrived at her hotel. She won't be back until tomorrow, so perhaps you could keep her updated in the meantime."

Oh. Mrs Rockswell left for one of her business trips, right? The thought pisses me off. She and Adam must've gotten into some kind of argument before she left. He would've been upset and alone, and now...now she isn't even here when he needs her most.

I nod again and step into the dimly lit room. The hiss of machines—the ventilator, I guess—sets me on edge. Adam will not wake up alone, even if I have to sleep on the floor next to his bed. How scary would that be? Opening your eyes with a tube down your throat in a cold, sterile-smelling room, IVs, and patients in various other parts of the ER shouting or crying. Hospitals are not quiet. They are not peaceful. They are not conducive to positive mental health.

Like I'd know anything about that.

I nudge aside the curtains that have been drawn around Adam's bed. He's asleep, yes. Looking small, pale, and fragile against the starched sheets. There's the ventilator mask over his mouth and I hate it. He would hate it.

He doesn't respond when I stop at the foot of his bed and place a hand on his leg through the blankets. I'm unsure if he can hear me, if he wants to hear me. For the first time, it dawns on me that maybe Adam will be angry at Casper and me for calling an ambulance. We've fucked up his chance at getting out of a life he hated. Did we have that right? At the time, I was positive of what I was doing. Save Adam.

Now, I'm not so sure.

"Hey." Even a whisper sounds so deafening in this cave. "Adam, it's me. Can you hear me?" Like he can answer. I put on my big-boy pants for the courage to move up to Adam's side. I've spent a lot of time staring at him before, but it's different when I don't have to worry about him catching me in the act.

Adam has beautiful hands, one of which I take in mine as I sit in a chair at his bedside. His fingers are long, slightly calloused at the tips from guitar playing. I trace the pad of my thumb over the fine bones in the back of his hand, over his knuckles, down each finger to where he's bitten his nails short.