He tries to rise.
His body lifts maybe two inches before his arms give out. He crashes back down with a grunt that sounds like it's ripped from somewhere deep in his chest.
"Fuck." He squeezes his eyes shut. "Can't."
"Yes, you can." I adjust my grip, pull harder. "Come on. However you can. Crawl if you have to. Just move."
He opens his eyes. Looks at me like I've lost my mind.
Maybe I have.
"Move," I repeat. "Now."
Something shifts in his expression. That stubborn set to his jaw I remember from before. From the compound. From the hospital.
He plants his palm on the floor. Pushes.
This time, he makes it to his knees.
I duck under his arm, take as much of his weight as I can. My shoulder screams in protest. He's too heavy. Too big. But I lock my knees and hold on.
"Good. That's good. Keep going."
We move.
It's not walking. It's not even crawling, really. It's something in between—a lurching, stumbling shuffle that leaves bloody handprints on the floor. His breathing is ragged. Mine isn't much better.
The hallway stretches forever.
Ten feet to the living room. Another fifteen to the bedroom. It might as well be a mile.
"Stay with me." I tighten my grip on his waist. "Don't you dare pass out again."
"Trying." His voice is strained. Thin.
We make it past the couch. Past the kitchen doorway. His feet drag against the hardwood, leaving dark streaks.
My right hand cramps.
I grit my teeth and ignore it. Not now. Not fucking now.
"Almost there." I don't know if I'm talking to him or myself. "Just a little further."
He stumbles. His knee hits the floor hard and I nearly go down with him.
"Get up." I pull at his arm. "Dante, get up."
He doesn't move.
"Get up!"
A sound escapes him. Something between a laugh and a groan. But he plants his hand on the wall. Pushes himself upright.
We keep moving.
The bedroom door is open. Thank God. I don't think I could manage a doorknob right now.
"The bed." I steer him toward it. "You need to lay down. Right now."