Page 92 of Cinder
“Go on,” I say quietly, waggling the bear to regain his attention.
He takes it and wraps both arms around it immediately. Behind me, the noise continues.
“I’m not going fucking anyw—”
“You have overdosed,” Ghost says evenly. “You need medical assistance.”
“I didn’t overdose, it was just a mistake! You’re making this a bigger deal than it is.”
Her eyes dart to the couch, to Dylan holding the bear.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she snaps at him. “I’m fine.”
Something in my chest turns hard, and I speak before I can stop myself.
“He’s scared.”
The room stills, and her hazy eyes hone in on me. “Mind your fucking business.”
“My business,” I bite out, “is your kid sitting on this couch watching his mother fight the people trying to keep her alive.”
Her expression twists immediately. “Fuck you.”
“Prince.”
Beck’s voice cuts through the room before I can say another word, and I feel every set of eyes in the room shift briefly toward me. Beck steps between us smoothly, attention already turning back toward the paramedics and the woman on the ground, who’s still struggling.
“Ma’am, arguing isn’t helping your situation right now.”
It’s an out, a deliberate one. My jaw locks, but I take it anyway. Behind me, Dylan curls tighter around the stuffed bear, and I drag my attention back to him.
“You like superheroes, Dylan?”
He swallows, eyes slowly moving to mine again, and nods.
“Yeah? Which one?”
“Sp-spider-Man.”
I latch onto it and tell him that Spider-Man is mine, too. I ask him what his favorite episode of Spider-Man is. I ask him what powers would be his favorite, and build on every single thing he utters to keep him talking.
Behind me, the paramedics are finally loading her onto the stretcher. She’s still talking and arguing, still insisting this is nothing.
“Can you do the web—”
“Is she going to die?” Dylan asks suddenly, his fingers digging into the teddy’s fur.
I don’t look at her, and don’t even hesitate as I keep my eyes on his.
“No. She’s going to the hospital, and they’re gonna help her.”
The stretcher wheels rattle over the threshold, and then Tucker steps in and crouches down to talk to him about relatives and procedures and who’s coming to collect him.
Fletch shifts slightly beside me, and I feel him glance down.
“You good?” he mutters, low enough that the kid can’t hear.
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. He knows what the look on my face means.
