Page 87 of Beehive

I wouldn’t let it happen. Itcouldn’thappen.

We had to move soon, to find help. But where? How?

The Americans weren’t expecting us—we’d lost that window when we had to chase those Soviets and retrieve the statue. Now we were stranded in their sector with the whole Russian state searching for us.

I sighed and brushed a lock of hair off Thomas’s forehead. His eyelids fluttered. A tiny movement, but I caught it.

My heart leaped.

I leaned close, lowering my voice to a soft, urgent whisper. “Thomas? Thomas, can you hear me?”

No response.

He lay there, his chest rising and falling, his breathing too shallow for my liking.

I counted: one, two, three seconds.

Then his eyelids flicked again. His throat worked, as if he were trying to swallow.

I held my breath.

My hands hovered over him, not quite touching him, afraid to break whatever fragile barrier kept him from waking.

The silence of the ruined apartment pressed down. I thought I heard distant voices somewhere, maybe down in the street, but it could have been my imagination. I prayed no patrols were closing in.

Then, I heard it, a quiet sound, a sigh or half a moan.

Thomas’s face twisted, his lips parted, and his eyes finally fluttered open. They were clouded at first, unfocused. They didn’t see so much as sought.

I didn’t dare move. I let him orient himself, to find something to latch onto. I let him see me first, my face, my eyes. I tried to look steady, reassuring, confident—even though my heart was thrumming like a hummingbird’s wings.

“Will?” His voice was a rasp, barely audible.

“I’m here,” I said. It came out a bit choked. I swallowed hard, gripped his hand, and held it to my lips. “Babe, I’m right here.”

He blinked, frowning slightly.

I gave him a moment.

God, he looked so weak. Thomas, who had always been the one pushing us forward, the one who could talk or fight his way out of anything. Thomas, who had kept me sane when shells fell like steel rain.

Now, he lay flat on his back with a wound that could kill him if I didn’t get him out.

But he was awake.

Awake meant life.

Awake meant hope.

“What . . .” he began, but broke into a quiet cough.

I reached for the tin cup on the floor beside me, the one I’d managed to fill with water from a leaky pipe in the kitchen. The water wasn’t exactly clean, but I’d boiled it with what little fire I could make. It had to do.

“Easy,” I said, sliding one arm under his head to lift him slightly. He winced and hissed as I brought the cup to his lips. “Just a sip.”

He took a little, coughed again, and then managed a second sip.

I eased him back down, trying not to jostle his injured shoulder. He was breathing heavier now, but at least he was breathing. When I set the cup aside, I caught his gaze. His eyes had cleared somewhat, and they locked onto me, searching my face for clues.