“No.” I squeeze his knee. I’m still nervous, but I feel a lot better after his confession. This is scary, but we’re going to figure it out together. “Not crazy at all.”

He squeezes my hand in his. “I love you, Brooke.”

It takes me a moment to realize what he’s said. He hasn’t told me he “lopes” me like he usually does. He said he loves me. He loves me.

“I love you too,” I breathe.

He leans in toward me. “And I’m going to show you how much.”

And he does.

Chapter 18

PRESENT DAY

Before I leave for the day, I check on Shane in the infirmary.

The infirmary is relatively empty today. There were two patients there as of this morning, but they were both well enough to go back to their cells by the afternoon, so right now, Shane is the only occupant of one of the six beds. The other hospital beds lined up against the wall all sit empty.

There’s a nurse who comes in the evening, but she hasn’t shown up for her shift yet, so the only person around is a guard I vaguely recognize, who sits outside the door, reading a thick paperback novel. The guard nods at me when I walk inside but then goes right back to his book. I look at the title—Moby Dick.

The lights are lowered in the infirmary, and since the sun has gone down, the room is dim. From the doorway, I can just barely make out Shane lying on the second bed from the end of the row. When I get closer, I can see all the features of his handsome face—in the dim light, he looks so damn much like the old Shane. The guy I fell in love with all those years ago.

His eyes are closed, and for a moment, a flutter of fear goes through my chest. I haven’t checked on him for over two hours—what if he has a hematoma growing in his brain and lost consciousness while he’s been lying here? He seemed neurologically stable when I left him, but a lot can happen in two hours. And since I was the last practitioner who saw him, it would all be on my shoulders. After all, it was my decision to watch him instead of sending him out for a scan of his head. If he died, it would be on me.

I take quick strides over to his bed. He doesn’t stir when I’m standing over him. “Shane,” I say.

Did his eyelids flutter? I can’t tell. Oh God, please let him just be sleeping and not unconscious.

“Shane,” I say again, and this time I shake his shoulder.

My knees almost buckle with relief when his eyelids crack open. He’s okay. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, Brooke.”