Page 499 of End Game

It takes almost forty minutes before anyone comes back for us.

I know that's not long.

I know exactly what happens during those forty minutes. Transfer from the ER stretcher to the ICU bed. New monitor leads. New assessment. Medication reconciliation. Lines traced from insertion point to pump because nobody on a critical-care unit trusts somebody else's tubing until they've put their own eyes on it. Repeat blood work. Orders verified. Insulin infusion checked. Fluids adjusted.

Forty minutes is nothing.

Forty minutes is also long enough for Dex to pace a groove into the waiting-room carpet.

Four of us sitting here, no initiative order, no action available except wait.

When the ICU nurse finally walks through the doors, all four of us stand.

Her eyes go first to me. “Griffin?”

“Yeah.”

“She's settled. She's more awake than she was downstairs, and her numbers are moving in the right direction. I can take you back first.”

First.

Likely not because Cami picked me, but because the chart says, “spouse.”

“What about them?” I ask.

She looks at Ronan, Micah, and Dex without any judgment or confusion. “She told us they're her partners and that she wants all three of them to be able to visit and receive updates. I've documented that.”

Some tension leaves my shoulders.

“But right now we’ll limit it to one. Normally we're stricter about hours and visitors overnight,” she continues, “but tonight we'll let you rotate through while we're getting her settled. Two at the bedside at a time. Starting tomorrow night, we'll go back to our regular overnight policy, which is one support person.”

Her attention returns to me.

As her husband.

I nod. “Okay.”

The room is quieter than the ER.

Still full of equipment, but organized differently. Controlled differently.

Cami is awake when I walk in.

Barely.

Her head turns toward me on the pillow, and her eyes track down before they come back to my face.

“You have blood on you.” Her voice is stronger than it was downstairs.

Not strong, but stronger.

Relief hits hard enough to make my knees feel unreliable for a second.

I look down at my uniform. “Good news. None of it is mine.”

Her mouth twitches. “That's reassuring.”

“Thought you'd appreciate the update.”