“They’re all sleeping,” Julian says, watching the procedure. His face is gray with exhaustion, his voice as weary as I’ve ever heard it. “Don’t worry. They’re fine.”

“I examined them upon arrival,” Dr. Goldberg says, bandaging the sullenly bleeding wound on my arm. “Your father bruised his elbow pretty badly, but he didn’t break anything. Your mother was in shock, but other than a few scratches from the broken glass and a bit of whiplash, she’s fine, as is Ms. Martinez. Lucas Kent has a couple of cracked ribs and a few burns, but he’ll recover.”

“And Julian?” I ask, glancing at my husband. He’s already clean and bandaged, so I know the doctor must’ve seen to him while I was sleeping.

“A mild concussion, same as you, along with first-degree burns on his back, a few stitches in the arm where a bullet grazed him, and some bruising. And, of course, these little wounds from the flying glass.” Taking another piece of glass out of my arm, the doctor pauses, looking at us both as if trying to decide how to proceed. Finally, he says quietly, “I heard about the miscarriage. I’m so sorry.”

I nod, fighting to contain a sudden swell of tears. The pity in Dr. Goldberg’s gaze hurts more than any shard of glass, reminding me of what we lost. The agonizing grief I’d buried during our fight for survival is back, sharper and stronger than ever.

We might’ve survived, but we didn’t emerge unscathed.

“Thank you,” Julian says thickly, getting up and walking over to stand by the window. His movements are stiff and jerky, his posture radiating tension. Apparently realizing his blunder, the doctor finishes treating me in silence and departs with a murmured “good night,” leaving us alone with our pain.

As soon as Dr. Goldberg is gone, Julian returns to the bed. I’ve never seen him this tired. He’s all but swaying as he walks.

“Did you sleep at all on the plane?” I ask, watching as Julian pulls off the T-shirt and sweatpants he must’ve changed into when we got home. My chest aches at the sight of his injuries. “Some bruising” is a serious understatement. He’s black and blue all over, with much of his muscular back and torso wrapped in white gauze.

“No, I wanted to keep an eye on you,” he replies wearily, climbing onto the bed next to me. Lying down facing me, he drapes one arm over my side and draws me closer. “I guessed you might be concussed from that tumble you took in the car,” he murmurs, his face mere inches from mine.

“Oh, I see.” I can’t look away from the intense blue of his gaze. “But you also have a concussion, from the explosion.”

He nods. “Yes, I figured as much. Another reason for me to stay awake earlier.”

I stare at him, my ribcage tightening around my lungs. I feel like I’m drowning in his eyes, getting sucked deeper into those hypnotic blue pools. Unbidden, recollections of the explosion slither into my mind, bringing with them the full horror of these recent events. Julian flying from the blast, Rosa’s rape, the miscarriage, my parents’ terrified faces as we speed down the highway amidst a hail of bullets… The horrible scenes jumble together in my brain, filling me with suffocating grief and guilt.