Page 251 of Ricardo

The anger between them. The hurt. The silence Dante has been using like a weapon. The way he still walked through fire for me without hesitating.

Ricardo holds out his hand.

I look at it.

Then at the doors.

I take Ricardo’s hand.

His fingers close around mine at once.

The doctor leads us through the double doors.

The hallway beyond is not as quiet as the waiting room. Nurses walk on squeaky shoes, machines beep behind curtains, paper rustles.

Ricardo walks beside me, but his hand stays firm around mine.

I feel the tension in him with every step.

His son is close now.

We turn into a recovery area, then down another short hall. The doctor stops outside a room where the walls are all glass.

“He’s here,” he says. “A few minutes for now.”

Ricardo nods.

The doctor steps away.

For a second, neither of us moves.

Then Ricardo steps through where the large glass door is open.

Dante lies in the bed.

The sight of him steals every thought from my head.

He is too still.

Dante is never this still. Even when he is quiet, there is always something alive in him. A restless foot. A shift of his shoulders. The quick movement of his eyes when he is surveying a room.

Now he lies beneath a white blanket, skin pale against the pillow, dark hair mussed, lashes resting against his cheeks. An IV runs into one arm. Monitors glow beside the bed. A clear tube rests beneath his nose. There are wires on his chest beneath the hospital gown.

He looks younger.

That hurts so badly I almost make a sound.

Ricardo lets go of my hand.

For one terrifying second, I think he is going to fall.

He does not.

He walks to the side of the bed with slow, careful steps, as if any sudden movement might disturb whatever fragile thread keeps Dante here.

I stay near the door.

I cannot make myself go closer.