Page 88 of When the Smoke Clears

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.” She swings off the bed and out the door.

A nurse slips in behind Isla. Her dark hair is wound into a neat twist that not a strand dares escape, and a faint scent of honey-menthol gum lingers as she sets a cup with two pills on the tray.

“For the pain,” she says, her voice gentle but efficient, like someone who doesn’t waste words. A thin band of violet polish glints on her nails as she adjusts the monitor.

“Discharge is scheduled for seven-thirty.” The nurse’s tone turns clipped. She glances at Isla again, something assessing in it. “Make sure he takes deep breaths. Men are terrible at that when they’re in pain.”

“I’ll help him,” Isla says.

The nurse gives me that sugar-steel smile again, then pivots and leaves without a backward look.

Isla watches the door a beat longer than necessary. “She seems…friendly.”

I shake my head. “We’ve had an influx of temporary staff lately. These traveling nurses come from all over, and sometimes they haven’t quite adjusted to how we do things in a close-knit community like ours.”

The door opens again and Gabe strides in, armed like a breakfast saint: coffees in a carrier, a paper bag steaming from the top. “Pages and Pastries,” he announces. “Ham and cheese croissants.”

“Your sister is an angel,” Isla says, eyes lighting.

“She is.” He grins.

Thirty minutes and a few sips of coffee later, I’m being wheeled through the front doors into a blue morning.

The air outside tastes like a different planet: pine and dew and the faint sweetness of something blooming. Light on skin instead of fluorescent hum.

I tried to argue for walking out, but hospital rules and Nurse Isla teamed up against me, and I decided not to die on that hill.

At Gabe’s car, I stand slowly, the world tilting while Isla slips under my elbow. She leans in to buckle my seat belt, her hair brushing my cheek, her perfume—no, just her—settling me.

“Careful,” she murmurs. “Let me.”

“I’m not helpless.”

“I know,” she says, and smiles in a way that makes me stop complaining.

Gabe hits every pothole between the hospital and the cabin on principle. “Gabe,” I grind out when the tires find another crater.

“What? That one jumped under me.”

When we pull up, Isla slips her hand around my forearm and walks me up the steps, pausing when my breath catches, steadying me without calling attention to it.

I don’t realize I’ve been bracing for chaos until the door opens and the opposite greets us.

Light spills across floors that shine. Counters gleam. The sink is empty and dry. A small bouquet of eucalyptus and lemongrass sits in a mason jar on the table, the scent bright and clean. A folded stack of laundry lives on the ottoman as if it were always meant to be there.

“Did you do this?” I ask, useless awe coating the words.

She shrugs. “Mmhmm.”

“You—” I brush my thumb over her cheek before I think better of it “—spent hours.”

“I had energy to burn.” She bites her lower lip. “And Gabe stocked the fridge. I figured if you’re stuck here, it should be clean. And…comfortable.”

I pull her in with my good arm, set my cheek against the top of her head. “If you’re here, I’ll be okay.”

She tips her face up and kisses my cheek. “Couch,” she orders gently. “You haven’t eaten anything. I’ll make you some tea and toast.”