Page 105 of Vital Signs

Misha's hand touched my arm briefly. "Take your time. I'll be here when you're ready."

I stumbled outside, the January cold hitting my face like a slap. I walked toward the tree line, boots crunching through snow and frozen grass. Away from everything.

I dropped onto a fallen log, head in my hands, and let the grief come. It started as a tightness in my throat, spread to my chest, then exploded outward until my whole body shook with it. Four years of numbness, buried under chemicals, cracked open all at once.

I cried for Tyler's dreams of surgery, an apartment, a life with choices. For the twenty-six others who'd died in Wright's trials. For disposable test subjects.

I cried for my parents' disappointment, for patients lost to COVID, for friends lost to overdoses, and for wasted years.

The tears came in waves from places I'd thought empty. My chest heaved. Snow soaked through my jeans, but I couldn't move. The pain was too raw.

Eventually, the storm passed. The tears stopped. My breathing steadied. I sat in the cold silence, wrung out but somehow lighter. Like something toxic had been purged from my system.

The sun was lower when I finally stood, legs stiff from sitting still too long. Hours had passed. The cremation would be nearly finished. Time to go back.

I found Misha in the office with War wrapping a fresh white bandage around his upper arm.

"What happened?" I asked.

Misha's eyes met mine. "Nothing serious. Just a precaution."

War finished tying the bandage. "The insertion site needs to stay clean for forty-eight hours."

Insertion site? Wrong location for an IV. Too much bandaging for a blood draw. What was it, then?

"I have something for you," Misha said, changing the subject. He opened a cabinet behind his desk, removing something carefully wrapped in black silk.

My breath caught as he unwrapped an urn of carved stone, deep gray with flecks of silver catching the light. Beautiful. Expensive.

"For Tyler," Misha said simply, placing it in my hands. "I've commissioned a nameplate. Tyler Graham, 1999-2025.”

It was lighter than expected. Twenty-six years of life, dreams, and struggles reduced to ash and bone fragments in stone.

My knees buckled. Misha caught me, one arm around my waist as the grief slammed back into me full force. The urn pressed against my chest, Tyler's final remains against my heart.

"I've got you," Misha murmured, holding me steady. "Let it out."

I clutched the urn tighter, shoulders shaking as the tears came again. Different this time. Not the raw, howling grief from the woods, but something deeper. The weight of responsibility. Of carrying Tyler's memory forward.

"He's safe now," Misha whispered against my hair. "Wright can't hurt him anymore."

We stood like that until my breathing steadied. Until I could hold Tyler's remains without falling apart. Until the worst of the storm passed.

"Come on," Misha said softly. "Let's go to the house."

We walked across the short distance between the funeral home and the Laskin family house, Tyler's urn cradled carefully in my arms. The cold air helped clear my head, but the grief remained, a constant weight in my chest.

Misha’s bedroom was warm and quiet. I sat on the edge of the bed, Tyler's urn in my lap, running my fingers over the smooth stone. This was why I was fighting. Why I was staying clean.

But knowing why didn't make it easier. The familiar itch started in my veins. The need to make this pain stop, to float away from the crushing weight of grief and responsibility. My hands shook slightly as I stared down at Tyler's ashes. One hit would make this bearable. Just enough to take the edge off.

Jimmy's number was still on my phone. One call. Twenty minutes. The pain would disappear, replaced by warm numbness.

"Hunter?" Misha sat on the bed beside me. "Talk to me."

"I want to get high," I admitted shakily. "So fucking bad."

Misha nodded, no judgment in his eyes. "What would help instead?"