Page 98 of Lady and the Butcher

“Mr. Carver,” a nurse said gently, “let’s get you to recovery.”

He shook his head once. “Her first.” His eyes found mine.

I crossed the space. My hand found his arm, heat radiating through thin cotton. He leaned into me—not enough to falter, just enough to let me carry a fraction of him.

“You shouldn’t be up,” I whispered.

“I’m fine,” he said, the lie steady as stone.

They guided him into a recovery bed. He lowered himself with the gracelessness of exhaustion, but even then he made it look deliberate. His eyes closed. His chest rose and fell.

I sat, took his hand. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t soften, just wrapped his fingers around mine with a strength that steadied me.

“Atticus.” My voice cracked.

“Lady.”

Then his eyes slid shut, but his hand held mine as if nothing short of death could break it.

Alicia came later, her eyes rimmed red. She paused at the doorway, looked at him, then me. Her face softened.

“The doctor said it went well,” she whispered.

I nodded, throat thick.

She stepped closer, gaze landing on Atticus. “I don’t know what he’s done in his life. But I know what he did tonight.”

I swallowed hard. “So do I.”

“He gave us this chance. I won’t forget it.”

Neither would I.

Hours blurred. Machines hummed. Nurses moved in and out. Finally, the doctor returned. Enough marrow. Strong counts. Stephen stable.

Relief cracked me open. I pressed my forehead to Atticus’s hand and wept.

When I lifted my head, his eyes were on me. Heavy-lidded but alive.

“You okay?” I asked.

“I’ve been worse.” His grip tightened. “But I’ll be fine. And he will, too.”

That night I dreamed of beams of light cutting fog, of oak beads clicking steady, of blood turned into lifelines instead of weapons.

34

Three weeks later, the hospital felt almost human. Not warm—hospitals don’t do warm—but like a place that had learned our names and decided not to bite.

Stephen sat propped up in a chair by the window wearing a sweatshirt that swallowed his shoulders. Color had crept back into his face like a rumor that turned out to be true. Alicia tucked a blanket over his knees and glared at anyone who looked like they might steal a molecule of his strength.

The oncologist smiled without faking it. “Day plus twenty-one. Counts are trending up. We’ll keep watching, but this is what we want to see.”

Alicia’s hand flew to her mouth. Dad cleared his throat the way men cry in rooms where they refuse to. He had stayed in Charleston because, of course, he had.

I stood a little behind them, palms on the cool metal of the IV pole, and let the numbers rewire my insides. The world hadn’t promised us this. It had given it, anyway.

Atticus waited in the hall, coffee in his hand. He didn’t come in right away. He let the family have the first breath. When he did step through the doorway, Stephen raised his fist, weak andstubborn, and bumped it against Atticus’s knuckles like they were twenty again and playing at invincibility.