Page 146 of Shrapnel

Dr. Lee led them down the hallway. The nurses at the front desk looked grateful to get them out of their lobby.

Noah was situated in a private room in the ICU. The window on the far wall was dark—Owen had gotten all turned around and had no idea which side of the hospital it faced out of. What time was it? Owen didn’t know. It was like time stood still inside the hospital.

Noah was in bed, his head elevated. There were marks on his face from where he’s been intubated, replaced by a nasal cannula. His hair was flopped on the pillow behind him, matted and tangled in blood. Multicolored wires were bundled out of the neck of his hospital gown, draping across the mattress and to a machine.

His chest looked bigger under the blankets. Owen looked at the monitor as if he could understand the numbers and squiggles. Kurt was breathing through his nose. His hands were fisted at his sides. Grant was beside him, one hand on his lower back.

“Besides the obvious, he had an injury to the bottom of his foot. We cleaned it out, and it shouldn’t give him any problems going forward. Like I said before…”

Dr. Lee lapsed into medical babble Owen didn’t understand. He felt woozy. Kurt stiffly walked over to Noah. His rough fingers reached for Noah’s. It looked so small resting on top of the blankets.

“When will he wake up?” Grant asked.

“Hard to say. Anesthesia affects everyone differently,” Dr. Lee answered. “You’re welcome to wait.”

She left in the middle of their silence. Grant picked up his phone, his thumbs moving in a flurry as he typed. Kurt was still hovering over Noah, his face cold.

A chair scraped. “Sit down, Owen.”

Grant had dragged an extra chair from the corner. Owen fell into it gratefully, dropping his face to his hands again. Now that he had purged it all from his system, he was tired. His eyes felt gritty.

“Owen, I need you to tell me exactly what you saw.” Grant’s voice was cold.

“What else do you need to know?” Kurt spat, still unable to take Noah’s hand. “Jamie shot Noah.”

Grant’s eyes closed, and he inhaled, knuckles white on his phone. “You know I care about Noah, but Jamie isn’t—”

Kurt scoffed, and Grant looked as angry as Owen had ever seen him. He stepped up to Kurt, pinching his chin to look at him. Kurt’s eyes were wet, and his lips were pressed together in defiance.

“Selcouth,” Grant’s voice was stern. “I know you are angry. I know you are upset. But lashing out won’t help Noah. Please, let me fix this.”

Kurt seemed to crumble under Grant’s touch. His lower lip wobbled. “How can you fix this? He tried to kill Noah!”

“No, he didn’t.”

Noah was looking at them from the bed, eyes half lidded and unfocused. He smacked his lips a couple times, groaning.

“Noah!” Kurt crouched so he could be level with his nephew.

“Thirsty,” Noah croaked.

Grant disappeared, returning a few moments later with a cup of water and a straw. He held the cup for Noah to sip. He sighed, breathing slowly.

“What did you mean?” Grant asked tentatively, still holding the plastic cup.

Noah swallowed again, rolling his lips. “Has Jamie ever missed?” he shook his head slowly, then paused, blinking like he regretted it. “If he wanted me dead, I would be.”

Owen stood slowly, fingering the strings of his hoodie. “He missed on purpose.”

“Yeah,” Noah winced. “He was giving me an out.”

They all sat back, stunned.

“He shot you so you could fake your death,” Grant surmised.

Jamie recognized Noah’s predicament. He knew there was no way Noah could abdicate his position—not without a target on his back. The new White Sand Mesa leader would never leave an old one alive. Especially not one with Elliott blood. Noah told him they ran the gangs like a monarchy. No king would leave a potential threat alive. Even if Noah didn’t want it, he could be used as a rallying cry. Noah would never be free from White Sand Mesa, not while he was alive.

So Jamie killed him. He killed Noah so he could live.