My mother and I stood up simultaneously.
“The Carter family?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” my mother whispered, clutching her purse to her chest like a shield.
“Ryan is out of surgery,” the doctor said, his eyes conveying a mix of relief and gravity. “He lost a massive amount of blood, and the bullet pulverized the acetabulum—the hip socket—and severed several major nerves.”
My stomach plummeted. “Will he walk again?” I asked.
The surgeon hesitated. “With extensive physical therapy… yes. He will walk. But he will likely require a cane for the rest of his life. He won’t be able to run. And… his career in the Teams is over.”
My mother let out a small, broken whimper and sank back into her chair.
The golden boy. The Trident. The shining future. Gone in the span of thirty seconds on a sun-baked tarmac.
“Can I see him?” I asked.
“Briefly. He’s heavily sedated.”
I walked into the recovery room. The rhythmic beep of the heart monitor was the only sound. Ryan looked small in the hospital bed, tubes snaking out of his arms, his face pale as parchment.
I stood by his side. I reached out with my good right hand and gently rested it on his arm.
“You did it, kid,” I whispered. “You saved us all.”
When I walked back out into the hallway, I saw a shadow detaching itself from the far wall.
Lucas.
He had showered and been given civilian clothes—jeans and a plain gray t-shirt. He looked remarkably like the man I had married, just weathered, worn down by six years of hell.
We stood facing each other. There was so much space between us. Six years of grief, anger, betrayal, and mourning.
“Hayes says the debriefings will take months,” Lucas said, his voice raspy. “They’re putting me in protective custody while the arrests are made.”
“You’re a dead man walking,” I said softly. “You’re the ghost who came back.”
“I am.” He looked down at his hands. “I’m sorry, Em. For everything. For letting your father make that deal. For leaving you behind.”
