Page 60 of The Storm

INDY

Mom cries.

Dad cries.

Dia cries.

I say I’m fine a lot.

Mom cries.

Dad cries.

Dia cries.

I’m fine.

It’s a lot.

Hands keep touching me. My face, my shoulders, my arms, like they’re making sure all of me is there. Like I might accidentally become less real if they don’t.

“We’re fine,” I say.

“We’re okay.”

“We’re fine.”

Mom pulls me into another hug that’s so tight it almost hurts. Her hands are shaking.

“We’re fine,” I mumble into her shoulder.

She nods.

She cries harder.

“You’re a real idiot,” Dia says.

“Yeah,” I say. “I know.”

“I thought—” She sniffs and shakes her head.

“We’re okay,” I tell her. “Really.”

Dad squeezes my shoulder.

I don’t think any of them know what to do with Nick. They all look like they want to hug him but also don’t dare, and I keep existing in this sphere of low, humming anxiety where part of me is sure he’s going to disappear any moment now.

Everything feels too loud.

And too bright.

There’s too much space.

A bit too much air, but I’m not going to complain about that.

“I’m okay,” I say while I’m being prodded and poked at by one doctor after another.

They don’t look like they believe me.