In his twenty years of life, Jeremy had never imagined that a simple, mundane walk down a hospital corridor would feel like winning the lottery. The squeak of his own shoes on the polished linoleum was a symphony, the sterile scent of antiseptic a perfume of victory.
He was walking. Normally. On the floor. Like a civilized human being. It was glorious.
This small, profound joy was, of course, tainted by the reason he was here. He was accompanying Everly to Sylvia's ward. He'd put up a fight, a valiant, last-stand effort involving logical arguments, pleading, and even a brief, desperate attempt to fake a sudden-onset migraine.
But Everly was a force of nature, and he was but a man in her path. He had agreed only after extracting a sacred, blood-oath-level promise: she would walk to the ward like a normal person. No scaling walls. No rappelling from the ceiling. No reenacting scenes from a spy movie starring a squirrel on meth.
