Page 636 of End Game

That's the part that matters.

I glance toward Griffin.

No tension.

No paramedic face.

He smiles at me, then he goes back to the video.

I smile at my laptop before I realize I'm doing it.

Apparently surviving a catastrophic medical event teaches you to appreciate extremely stupid things.

Flat arrows.

Men who don't panic.

Insulin arriving where it is supposed to.

Greg from Colorado Springs needing his adjectives warmer.

Life—normal life.

My gaze drifts toward Micah when he walks back by.

He's wearing loose gray sweatpants and an old black T-shirt, and when he lowers himself into the chair beside Dex, he does it like it is also normal life.

Thank God.

Because not too long ago, for almost a week, Micah sat down like a ninety-year-old man with hemorrhoids and expected me not to notice.

I noticed.

I also saw enough dark purple under the hem of his boxers one morning to understand Ronan had been involved.

How involved, exactly, remains classified information.

Dex knows more.

This is evident from the fact that the first time I watched Micah wince while sitting down, Dex's face did something so spectacularly smug that Micah threatened to stab him with a fork.

Ronan, meanwhile, looked irritatingly serene.

Nobody told me anything.

Which is fine.

Mostly.

I respect privacy—I just don't necessarily enjoy it.

Micah catches me looking at him. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His eyes narrow.

Ronan looks up from his laptop. “She's thinking about the bruises again.”