Chapter Text
The road keeps moving under my feet. That’s the only thing I know for sure. Asphalt, gravel, and sand. My boots slip every couple of steps because the ground won’t stay still long enough for me to get my balance right.
I don’t remember turning off the highway.
I remember smoke. I remember heat punching through the windows hard enough to make the glass scream. Somebody yelling my name from somewhere behind me, or maybe inside my own head. Then nothing clean after that. Just pieces. Running. Blood slick on my hands that doesn’t wash off no matter how many times I wipe them on my jeans.
The night air should be cool, but my skin burns anyway. Every breath feels wrong. Too shallow or too deep, never anything in between. My ribs ache when I inhale. Something warm keeps sliding down my side beneath my jacket, sticky against my shirt.
I press my hand there harder and keep walking.
That’s the thing nobody tells you about disaster. It isn’t loud forever. Eventually the sirens disappear. The shouting stops. The fire burns itself out somewhere miles behind you, and the world keeps going like it didn’t just split open.
The road is endless no matter which way I go. I haven’t seen another car in a while. Maybe hours, it’s hard to tell. Time keeps dropping out from under me.
I should stop. The thought is calm and clear, so of course I ignore it immediately. Stopping means thinking, and thinking means seeing it again. The flames rolling across the ceiling. Smelling gasoline and melting plastic and something worse underneath it. The sound of wood collapsing somewhere deep inside the house like a body finally giving up.
My throat hurts as I swallow.
My hand comes away bloodier this time.
‘Shit.’ The word barely makes it out.
I lean over my knees for a second, breathing through another wave of dizziness. My vision pulses strangely at the edges, black bleeding inward before fading back again.
I laugh once under my breath because of course this is how it happens. Not the fire. Not the cops. Not getting shot. I survive all that just to bleed out alone on some empty road in the middle of nowhere.
Headlights appear behind the next bend before I can decide whether I care.
For a second they look too bright to be real.
The headlights drift sideways for a moment, smearing across the dry road when my vision blurs again. I blink hard, trying to clear it, but the darkness at the edges only pulls tighter. The sound reaches me a moment later—low and rough, an engine pushing hard.
Motorcycle.
I stare at the light without really understanding what I’m supposed to do about it. My body feels disconnected now, nerves firing too slow. The beam cuts through the night, almost blinding me, catches the blood on my hands.
The bike rounds the bend too fast.
For one strange second, neither of us moves.
Then the rider sees me. The engine snarls sharply. Tires skid against dry asphalt. The headlight jerks sideways so violently I think the whole thing’s going down. I flinch backward instinctively, my boot slipping on sand at the edge of the road, and pain tears hot across my ribs hard enough to empty my lungs.
‘Jesus Christ—’ The voice gets swallowed under the screech of brakes.
I try to step away. I really do. But my legs stop listening somewhere between one heartbeat and the next. The world tilts violently sideways, desert and road and white light folding together into one dizzy blur.
The last thing I see before I hit the ground is the rider throwing his weight off the bike to keep it upright.
Then gravel slams into my shoulder and everything cuts black for a second.
Consciousness comes back ugly. Not all at once. Just sound first: metal cooling somewhere nearby, and my own breathing, rough and uneven.
Then pain. Pain everywhere.
I groan quietly before I can stop myself and force my eyes open.
A man is crouched beside me. Dark jacket. Gloves shoved halfway off. One knee pressed into the asphalt.
The motorcycle lies a few feet away on its side, headlight still burning bright across the road.
The guy’s saying something, but my hearing keeps dipping in and out.
‘—can you hear me?’
He’s older than me, maybe fifties. His dark hair has gone silver at the temples and in his beard. Tired eyes. Really tired eyes, like he hasn’t slept properly in months.
I push myself up automatically, which is a fucking mistake. The movement rips something open along my side and suddenly I can’t breathe right. My vision flashes white. A hand catches my shoulder before I pitch sideways again.
‘Easy.’ His voice isn’t forceful, but calm.
It makes me distrust him more, and I jerk away hard enough to nearly fall again.
‘Don't—’ The word breaks apart halfway out of my mouth.
The man studies me for exactly one second, taking in the blood, the shaking in my hands, the way I'm struggling to stay upright. Medical eyes. I know them before he even speaks again.
‘You’ve lost a significant amount of blood.’
I scoff once because of course I have.
He doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t crowd me either. Just stays crouched there in the dark with this careful stillness that feels deliberate somehow.
‘What's your name?’
‘Why?’
‘Because if you pass out again, I’d rather not call you “hey, you.”’
I stare at him. Most people push too hard when they’re nervous. They fill silence with questions. This guy doesn’t. His voice stays level, patient in a way that should probably feel reassuring but instead just makes something tight twist harder in my chest.
‘You alone?’ I look past him automatically, down the empty road. No sirens, no other headlights. Good.
Something flickers across his face then. Fast enough I almost miss it. ‘Yeah.’
I nod once, more to myself than him.
I’m covered in sweat. Drops drip down the back of my neck. My clothes feel heavy with it. With blood too. I don’t know how long I’ve been running since I had to ditch the car.
The man follows my line of sight toward the road. ‘Are you running from someone?’
I go still.
He notices. There it is again, that clinical awareness. He watches the way people in hospitals watch you when they’re trying to decide how bad things really are.
Doctor. The realization settles fully into place. Not a cop. Not some random tourist. A doctor riding alone through the middle of nowhere for reasons I can't begin to guess.
I have to leave before he asks more questions. Before he tries to take me to a hospital. Before this turns into something complicated.
I plant one foot under myself and stand. Or try to.
The road pitches violently sideways. My knees buckle before I get fully upright and suddenly both his hands are on me, one catching my arm, the other steadying my back before I hit the ground again.
The contact jolts through me hard enough to spike panic straight up my spine. I shove him off instinctively.
‘Don’t fucking touch me.’ The words come out sharper than I mean them to.
He lets go immediately. He’s not offended nor angry, just watching me carefully now.
‘Okay,’ he says quietly.
I hate how reasonable he sounds.
Blood loss makes everything strange. My thoughts keep drifting out of order. One second I’m standing in the road, the next I’m back inside the house with smoke filling my lungs.
I squeeze my eyes shut hard enough to hurt.
The man says something else, but I miss half of it. ‘—need stitches at minimum. Maybe cracked ribs. Possible concussion.’
‘I'm fine.’
‘You are objectively not fine.’ He looks directly at the blood soaking through my t-shirt.
Another scoff slips out of me before I can stop it. This one sounds worse, frayed around the edges.
The doctor exhales slowly and pushes a hand back through his hair. Exhaustion hangs off him up close.
‘Look,’ he says, voice quieter now. ‘I don’t particularly care who you are or what happened tonight. But if you keep walking out here, you’re going to collapse again.’
I don’t answer. I know he’s right. I hate that he’s right. But I also don’t know what will happen if I stop moving. Everything sways slightly at the edges of my vision.
‘When’s the last time you ate?’ The doctor notices that too apparently.
I blink at him. The fact that he’s asking that instead of calling the police throws me off more than anything else so far. ‘I don't know.’
‘Hours?’
‘Maybe.’ How the fuck am I supposed to remember when I last ate?
‘And water?’
I shrug weakly, another bad choice on my part. Pain slices through my ribs hard enough to make my knees threaten to give out again.
The doctor’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Then he glances toward the motorcycle lying in the road.
‘I’m heading back to my motel that’s about twenty minutes from here.’
Every alarm bell in my head should probably go off at that sentence. Weird stranger. Isolated stretch of road. Bleeding half to death. Instead all I can think about is sitting down. Just for five minutes. Maybe ten.
‘I can clean those injuries there,’ he continues carefully. ‘You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to. And if you still want to leave afterward, I’ll drive you wherever you want.’
‘Why?’ The question comes out rougher than I intend.
He goes quiet for a second, but finally he says, ‘Because somebody should probably help you.’ Simple as that. No lecture and no suspicion.
Something inside my chest twists painfully at the words.
I look away first.
The motorcycle headlight still cuts across the road in one long pale beam. Steam rises faintly from the engine into the chilly night air.
The doctor stands slowly, careful not to move too fast around me. He’s tall, with a lean build beneath his leather jacket. Controlled movements despite the obvious strain in them.
Burnout, some detached part of my brain supplies suddenly. I’ve seen enough addicts and exhausted men to recognize it in other forms.
He’s carrying something heavy too. I hate the thought immediately because noticing things about him feels dangerous already.
Another dizzy wave rolls through me hard enough that I nearly tip over.
The doctor watches my hand slip on the asphalt. Then he says quietly, almost resigned, ‘You can keep trying to prove you don’t need help tomorrow.’
That actually gets a short breath of laughter out of me. It hurts like hell. I press my hand harder against my side, feeling fresh warmth spreading under my palm.
The doctor’s eyes track the movement automatically.
‘Yeah,’ I mutter finally, staring at the dark road. ‘Okay.’
Relief flickers across his face so briefly I almost miss it. Pretty sure it’s not relief for himself, but relief that I stopped fighting long enough to stay alive.
That hits somewhere uncomfortable too.
He retrieves the motorcycle first, hauling it upright with practiced effort. I watch him through the fog creeping across my vision, trying to stay conscious while he checks the damage quickly.
The bike starts again on the second try. The sound vibrates deep through the empty road.
I sway.
‘Think you can stay upright long enough to get on?’ The doctor looks back at me over the handlebars.
‘Probably.’
‘Your confidence is inspiring.’
Despite everything, my mouth twitches faintly.
He notices, but doesn’t comment on it. He just waits while I make my way toward the bike on unsteady legs.
Up close, the motorcycle looks enormous. Dark and warm from the engine. I stare at the back seat for a second longer than necessary, suddenly aware of how insane this whole situation is.
I don’t even know this guy’s name. The thought finally surfaces through the haze.
Maybe he sees it on my face because he says, ‘I’m Michael.’
I look at him. Exhaustion sits heavy in every line of his face, but his eyes stay steady on mine.
‘Andrew,’ I hear myself say before I can decide not to.
Something shifts subtly in his expression at the answer. It’s not recognition, thank fuck. Just acknowledgement, probably. Like naming things matters.
Then the world tilts sharply again.
Michael steps closer automatically before stopping himself halfway, giving me space to choose.
I hate that I notice that too.
‘Andrew,’ he says carefully, ‘you are about thirty seconds away from passing out on me again.’
‘Yeah,’ I mumble. My hands feel numb suddenly. Everything feels far away.
Michael studies me one last time, then reaches out slowly enough for me to pull back if I want.
I don’t. I don’t know why, but I fucking don’t.
His hand settles lightly against my arm, grounding rather than restraining. ‘Get on the bike,’ he says quietly.