She’s alive. She’s breathing. She’s here.
I unlockthe front door as silently as possible when we get home, then slip inside. The house is dim andquiet. Perfect. No playing twenty questions with our parents.
I carry Harper upstairs, and she only stirs when we hit the landing, her face pressing into the side of my neck. It’s not deliberate—she’s too far gone—but it’s trusting. And that trust feels like both an honor and a weight.
I was almost too late.
Her room’s barricaded from earlier, so I take her through mine and across the bathroom that links our worlds.
I lay her down on her bed and tuck the blanket around her.
Smooth it once. Twice. Three times. Four times to even it out.
Check her breathing: Still steady. Check her pulse: Still there. Check her skin temperature: Still cold.
I swallow hard, feeling too many emotions to name. I check her heartbeat at her throat, like I did several times in the car, and it’s still beating steady.
Count it: One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Sixty-eight beats per minute. Still elevated. Normal resting is 60-100. She’s within range but high.
It’s the only reason we aren’t at the ER right now.
She looks like a pale, dark-haired angel. Her eyes open again, slow and unfocused, but they find mine.
“Hey,” I whisper, and I swear she hears me.
Her fingers twitch against my hand. I squeeze, and this time, she squeezes back. Weak, but real.
I swallow hard, feeling too many emotions to name.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell her, though leaving her for even a minute feels wrong. I force myself downstairs tograb the first aid kit, including the Narcan Mom’s always kept up to date ever since the days my bio dad used to come around, along with some water and crackers.
By the time I get back upstairs, Harper’s eyes are open—really open—tracking me like she’s been waiting.
“You came,” she says, voice thick and slow from whatever poison’s still in her system. The way she says it makes my heart hitch. Like coming to her rescue isn’t something people usually do for her.
How many times has she been abandoned? How many times did she need someone, and no one showed?
“Do you need anything?” I keep my voice low and easy. Like you might with a spooked animal.
“Thirsty.”
I help her ease upright against the pillows, my arm bracing her as she tilts toward me, unsteady. She’s warmed up warm, almost fever-warm now, and the instinct to just hold her there—not let her go at all—nearly overrides my brain. I hand her the water. She drinks, but some spills at the corner of her mouth, running down her chin.
Before I can think, I’m wiping it away with my sleeve. Her eyes lift to mine, wide and soft, and I swear I feel that look all the way down to my bones.
A strand of damp hair falls across her face. I reach for it, then stop halfway. “Can I…?” My hand hovers just shy of her skin. “Is this okay?”
She nods.
I brush her hair back, fingertips grazing her temple. She blinks, and her eyes shine in a way that makes meache—like she’s not used to gentleness. Like it’s something she has to learn to accept.
Her eyes close, and she lets her head rest against my palm when I smooth her hair back again. That tiny, instinctive lean toward me feels like trust I don’t deserve.
“Just rest.”
She does, her breathing evening out. I sit there, one hand on hers, the other scrolling through my phone to look up every drug interaction and overdose symptom I can find. Her pulse stays steady under my fingers. Her pupils are blown wide as opposed to Rudy’s pinpricks. I keep count of every breath until the hours blur.