The hospital on Christmas Eve was wrong in the quiet way only hospitals can be.

Too still.
Too empty.
Too honest.

A nurse wrapped Mia in warm blankets, murmuring softly as if sound itself might break her. Her vitals were taken. Then retaken. Then checked again.

Hypothermia.
Early stages.

Bruised ribs.
Old marks.
New ones.

Patterns no accident could explain.

Mia’s fingers stayed wrapped around mine the entire time, even while she slept—as if letting go might mean disappearing.

“She’s lucky,” the doctor said quietly, meeting my eyes. “Another hour out there, and this would be a very different conversation.”

I nodded.

I didn’t need him to finish the sentence.

While Mia slept, I stepped into the hallway and made my calls.