The hospital room smelled of antiseptic and remorse.
My father was propped up with pillows, bruises blooming purple and yellow all over his face, like a terrible abstract painting. His throat wounds had been washed and patted up, but I could still see the faint red seam where Scarlett's knife edges had dug into his flesh.
When I saw them, I wanted to vomit.
"Don't look at me like that, Brook, I'm not going to shatter," Dad commented, his voice rough but trying for a grin. "I survived your stepmother. I can survive anything."
I attempted to smile but it was more of a wobbly grin. "Too soon, Dad."
"Humor is how I cope. You know this." He patted at the edge of his bed, and I sat gingerly, being careful to avoid resting on his IV line. "And the nurses here are so fastidious. The night shift one, in particular. Did you know she's single?"
"Dad!" But I was amazed at myself for laughing, which I suspect was his point.
His expression softened, turning serious. "Where's Daniel?"
