Page 60 of Vital Signs

A black sedan pulled in two rows behind me. Same car that had followed us from the clinic yesterday. My stomach dropped.

The driver pulled out a phone and made a call.

Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t the same car. Either way, I didn’t have a choice. The sooner I got what we needed, the sooner I could get back to Hunter.

Before stepping out, I turned to him. He'd curled onto his side, knees drawn to his chest.

"I'm coming back." I leaned down until my forehead pressed against his, the contact searing my skin. "I promise."

His eyes locked onto mine, searching for the lie he expected to find. He nodded once. The movement made him wince.

"Here." I pressed my keys into his palm, wrapping his fingers around them. "So you know I'll come back."

The confusion in his eyes cracked something I didn't know was still breakable. He stared at the keys like they were foreign objects. As if a set of keys could stop me from vanishing like everyone else. As if anything mattered when his body was cannibalizing itself.

"I’ll be right back," I repeated, then stepped out into the night.

The cold punched through my jacket. Ohio winters were vicious, unforgiving. The kind of cold that killed the careless. I'd spent my first American winter huddled under electric blankets, unable to comprehend how anything survived here.

The automatic doors opened with a mechanical whoosh that grated on my nerves. After hours in the van's twilight world, the store's brightness forced me to squint. The smell overwhelmed me next: antiseptic cleaning products, processed food, and the undercurrent of desperation that clung to every retail store after midnight.

I kept my head down through the store, avoiding eye contact with the few night shoppers. Even years after Paris, my face occasionally triggered recognition. The last thing I needed was someone taking photos.

My boots squeaked against the polished floor as I moved toward the health section, each step carrying me farther from Hunter. I grabbed only what we couldn't survive without: water, Gatorade, Tylenol, crackers, and protein drinks.

Near checkout, a display caught my eye. A stuffed dragon sat on an endcap, blue-black scales almost exactly like Hunter's tattoo. Something fierce and indestructible, even in plush form.

He'd call it stupid. Sentimental.

I grabbed it anyway.

At checkout, the night cashier's eyes lingered on my face too long. Recognition flickered in her expression.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look like someone famous?" she asked, voice too loud in the quiet store. "I swear I've seen your face on Instagram or something."

My heart slammed against my ribs. "No," I said, the lie automatic. "I get that a lot, though."

She nodded, not convinced but unwilling to argue. Her gaze kept returning to my face while she scanned the items, making my skin crawl.

Three Athens police officers strode through the automatic doors. The lead officer, a stocky man with a crew cut, spotted me immediately and nudged his partners.

My heart stopped. No. Not now. Not when Hunter was alone and suffering.

I abandoned the basket and bolted for the side exit. I pulled out my phone and scrolled through, searching for Hunter's number to let him know I was on my way.

"STOP RIGHT THERE!" The voice hardened, followed by the sound of boots against linoleum.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, spinning me around roughly. "Hands where I can see them!"

I froze, phone still in my hand. "I need to finish this call. Please, I have someone waiting—"

"DROP THE PHONE!" The officer's hand went to his holster, stance widening.

The phone clattered to the floor. Before I could speak, the officer slammed me face-first against the wall, jerking my arms behind my back.

"Michael Vasiliev, you're under arrest for breaking and entering. We have security footage from the Athens Community Clinic showing you and an accomplice stealing confidential patient files."

Cold metal bit into my wrists as the handcuffs ratcheted tight. The pressure against my skin sent me hurtling back through time and space. Not here, not now, but Paris. Roche's hands. Roche's restraints. Roche's soft whispers as they bound me.