Parecían irritados.
Victor se levantó primero. —Bueno —dijo, alisando la chaqueta. “El soldado regresa”.
“¿Dónde está ella?”
Dominic se puso delante de mí y me puso una mano en el pecho. Pasó mucho tiempo en gimnasios, pero ninguno en lugares difíciles. Podría decirlo por la suavidad en sus ojos.
“Tómatelo con calma, Rambo. Ella no está en condiciones para los visitantes”.
I looked down at his hand, then back at him.
“Move it.”
Something in my face convinced him. He stepped aside.
I pushed through the ICU door and heard the ventilator before I saw the bed. Mechanical breathing filled the room in cold, measured intervals. A machine doing what pain had interrupted.
Then I saw her.
If her chart had not said Tessa Hunter, I would not have known.
Her face was swollen beyond recognition, mottled purple and black. One eye was sealed shut. Her jaw was wired. Her left temple disappeared beneath gauze where surgeons had shaved away hair to stitch a deep wound. Both wrists were bandaged. One hand sat in a cast. Bruises bloomed along her collarbone and throat in ugly shades.
