The rain wasn't falling anymore. It was throwing itself at the city.

I walked with my arms wrapped around my ribs, heels biting blisters into my feet, hair plastered flat to my skull. My phone was a wet brick in my hand. I pulled it out under the awning of a closed dry cleaner and dialed him.

Straight to voicemail.

I dialed again.

Straight to voicemail.

I didn't leave a message. What was I going to say. *I'm soaked. I'm walking. You left me in a theater because she broke a nail.* I typed it out anyway. Deleted it. Typed something shorter. *Where are you.* Hit send.

The little checkmark turned gray.

I kept walking.

The streetlights were spaced too far apart. Half of them flickered. The bus had stopped running an hour ago, and the rideshare app kept telling me there were no cars in my area, please try again. I knew the way home. Twelve blocks. I'd done it a hundred times in daylight.

In front of me, a long block stretched between two boarded-up storefronts. I could cut through the alley behind them and shave four blocks off. I'd done it before. With Ryland. In summer.

I turned in.

The alley swallowed the streetlight in three steps. My shoes splashed in something that wasn't water. The brick walls leaned in close enough to brush my shoulders. I picked up my pace. My breath made small clouds in front of my mouth.

I heard the footstep behind me one half-second before the hand closed over my mouth.

The world tilted. My back slammed into something hard — chest, jacket, the smell of wet wool and cigarettes. An arm clamped across my collarbones. My phone hit the ground. The screen lit up sideways in a puddle.

"Shh," he said. Right into my ear. Almost gentle. "Shh, shh, shh."

I bit down on the hand. He grunted and the hand jerked away and I screamed — one short, ragged sound that the rain ate before it finished. He shoved me face-first into the brick. My cheek opened. I tasted copper.

"Stop," he hissed. "Stop, stop—"

I didn't stop. I drove my elbow back. I kicked. I clawed at the arm across my throat. My nails caught skin. He swore. The arm tightened.

Then both hands were on my neck.

He turned me around to do it. He wanted to see my face. I remember that. I remember the moment he turned me around, and the rain running down into his eyes, and the way his mouth was open like he was the one struggling to breathe.

His thumbs pressed into the soft place under my jaw.

The world went small.

I'd never understood, before, what people meant when they said your life flashes. Nothing flashed. Everything narrowed. The alley shrank to the size of a coin. My ears filled with cotton. My hands, somewhere far away, were still moving — slapping at his wrists, scratching, fumbling.

Fumbling.

My right hand found my pocket. Empty. My left hand found the wet ground. Found glass. Found my phone.

My thumb pressed against the screen. The home button. The print read. I didn't see it happen. I felt it. The phone unlocked under my finger like it knew me. Like it was the last thing in the world that still did.

I pulled up the keypad by muscle memory. The same muscle memory that had dialed his number ten thousand times. From college dorms. From airport gates. From hospital waiting rooms when my father had his stent put in and Ryland sat next to me holding my hand.

I dialed.

I couldn't hold the phone to my ear. I just pressed it against the wet concrete near my face and prayed.

It rang.

It rang.

Across the city, in a warm apartment with the heat turned up too high, Ryland Crawford lay on a couch with a girl in a pink beanie asleep against his shoulder. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it without disturbing her. He looked at the screen.

*Bellamy.*

He glanced down at Cadence. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheek. Her breath was even. Peaceful. She had finally fallen asleep after crying for two hours.

His thumb moved.

*Decline.*

In the alley, the ringing stopped.

I heard the small, polite click of the call ending. I heard my own breath whistle through the place his hands were closing.

My fingers went loose. The phone slid out of them and clattered into the puddle. The screen went dark.

Something in me went dark with it.

Not fear. Fear had already left. What came next was quieter. It was the understanding — the clean, terrible understanding — that he had seen my name and he had chosen not to know.

I stopped fighting.

I think that's what saved me. The man above me felt me go still and his hands loosened a fraction, surprised, and in that fraction —

"HEY!"

A shout. A real one. From the mouth of the alley.

"HEY — GET OFF HER — "

A dog was barking. A flashlight cut across the brick.

The hands left my throat. Footsteps splashed away into the dark. I heard the wet slap of them all the way to the next block.

I lay on my back in two inches of rainwater and looked up.

A man was kneeling over me. Older. Gray beard. A small wet dog at his shoulder, whining. He was already on the phone.

"Yes — yes, an alley off Pike, between Eighth and Ninth — she's bleeding, her neck, she — ma'am, ma'am, stay with me, what's your name, honey, stay with me — "

He slid one hand under my head. Lifted it out of the water. His coat smelled like cedar and dog.

"Stay with me," he said. "They're coming. You hear me? Stay awake. What's your name."

My mouth moved.

"Bellamy," I whispered.

"Bellamy," he repeated. Like a promise. "I've got you, Bellamy. I've got you."

Somewhere far away, on a coffee table in a warm apartment, a phone screen was already going dark.

I woke up to white.

White ceiling. White walls. White sheets pulled up to my chest. The kind of white that meant hospital, that meant fluorescent lights humming overhead, that meant I was still alive.

My throat felt like I'd swallowed glass.

I turned my head. Slowly. The room tilted and settled. There was a window showing grey sky. A monitor beeping somewhere to my left. An IV stand with a bag of clear fluid dripping into my arm.

And Paige.

She was asleep in the chair beside the bed. Her head was tipped back against the wall at an angle that would hurt when she woke up. Her jacket was balled under her neck like a pillow. There were mascara smudges under her eyes.

I watched her breathe.

I didn't call her name. I just watched.

After a while, she stirred. Opened her eyes. Saw me looking.

She sat up so fast the jacket fell to the floor.

"Bell."

Her voice cracked on my name. She reached for my hand. Stopped herself. Touched my wrist instead, careful, like I might break.

"Hey," I whispered.

It came out like gravel. She flinched.

"Don't talk," she said. "You don't have to talk."

I nodded.

She sat back. Wiped her face with both hands. When she dropped them, her eyes were red.

"You've been out for fourteen hours," she said. "They gave you something for the pain. And the swelling. Your throat—" She stopped. Swallowed. "It's bad, Bell. But you're okay. You're going to be okay."

I blinked.

She looked at me for a long moment. Then she reached into her bag and pulled out a small notepad and a pen. Set them on the bed beside my hand.

"In case you need to write something," she said.

I picked up the pen. My fingers were stiff. Clumsy. I wrote slowly.

*How long have you been here.*

She glanced at the notepad. Smiled. It didn't reach her eyes.

"Since they called me," she said. "You had my number in your phone under ICE. The paramedics found it in the alley."

I wrote again.

*Ryland?*

Her face went hard.

"No," she said. "He doesn't know. He's been calling you. Texting. I've been deleting them."

I stared at her.

She leaned forward. Her voice dropped.

"Bell, he declined your call. The police have the log. He saw your name and he hung up on you while you were—" She stopped. Her jaw clenched. "He doesn't get to walk in here now. Not after that. Not ever."

I nodded.

Something inside me — something that had been holding its breath for months, maybe years — let go.

I closed my eyes.

Paige stayed.

---

The days blurred together.

Doctors came and went. They examined my throat. Took pictures. Asked questions I answered by nodding or shaking my head. A nurse changed my IV. Another brought me broth I couldn't swallow. Paige sat in the chair and worked on her laptop with the sound off.

On the third day, she brought me a sketchpad.

Real paper. Thick and cream-colored. A set of pencils in a tin case.

"You used to draw," she said. "I thought maybe—" She shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe it would help."

I took the pad. Opened it. The paper was smooth under my fingertips.

I picked up a pencil.

I drew the window. The frame. The grey sky beyond it. The corner of the IV stand. The monitor with its small green line rising and falling.

I drew for an hour.

When I looked up, Paige was watching me. She didn't say anything. She just smiled.

I went back to drawing.

---

My phone sat on the bedside table. Paige had cleaned it. Charged it. The screen was cracked across one corner, but it still worked.

I watched it light up. Over and over.

*Ryland Crawford.*

Paige picked it up every time. Declined the call. Deleted the voicemail. Set it back down.

"He's persistent," she said once. "I'll give him that."

I didn't ask what the messages said.

I didn't want to know.

---

On the fifth day, a detective came.

His name was Aaron Marsh. He was older, with grey at his temples and a kind face. He sat in the chair Paige had vacated and pulled out a small notebook.

"Ms. Sullivan," he said. "I know this is difficult. But I need to ask you a few questions about the night of the assault."

I nodded.

He asked me to describe what happened. I wrote it out on the notepad. Slowly. He read each page and nodded and turned to a fresh sheet.

When I finished, he closed his notebook.

"We have the suspect in custody," he said. "A man named Marcus Webb found you and called 911. He's the reason you're alive."

I wrote: *Can I thank him?*

"I'll pass along your information," Marsh said. "He's been asking about you."

He stood. Hesitated.

"One more thing," he said. "We pulled your phone records. There was an outgoing call at 11:47 PM. To a Ryland Crawford. The call was declined."

I looked at him.

He looked back.

"I'm going to contact him as your emergency contact on file," Marsh said quietly. "To close the case. He should know what happened."

I wrote: *Okay.*

Marsh nodded. Left.

I lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling.

Something in my chest felt light. Hollow. Not empty. Just clear.

I picked up the pencil and started drawing again.

---

Paige's phone rang two days later.

She looked at the screen. Her face went cold.

"It's him," she said.

I shook my head.

She declined it.

Five minutes later, someone knocked on her apartment door.

Paige lived on the third floor of a walk-up in Capitol Hill. I was staying with her. Sleeping on her couch. Healing.

She looked through the peephole. Turned back to me.

"It's Ryland," she said.

I pulled the blanket up to my chin. Shook my head again.

Paige opened the door four inches. The chain lock held.

I couldn't see him from the couch. But I heard his voice.

"Paige. Please. I need to see her."

He sounded wrecked.

Paige's voice was flat.

"She's alive," she said. "No thanks to you."

"What are you—"

"The detective called you, didn't he."

Silence.

"She almost died, Ryland. In an alley. While you were holding someone else's hand."

"I didn't know—"

"She called you. You hung up on her."

I heard him make a sound. Something broken.

"I didn't know," he said again. "Paige, please, I didn't—"

"Get out," Paige said.

She closed the door.

I heard his footsteps on the stairs. Slow. Uneven.

Paige came back to the couch. Sat down beside me. Put her arm around my shoulders.

I leaned into her.

I didn't cry.

I just sat there. Breathing. Alive.

And for the first time in months, I didn't doubt a single thing I felt.