THE MAN WHO STAYED

DAMIAN

Three days after the accident, Marcus calls again.

"Tell me you're not going back to the hospital."

I keep my eyes on the road. "I'm going."

"Damian—"

"She's awake."

Silence.

"The hospital called this morning," I continue. "She woke up an hour ago."

"That changes nothing. You called the ambulance. You gave your statement to the police. Your legal obligation is done."

"She's alone, Marcus."

"How do you know that?"

"The hospital told me. No ID. No family has come forward." I switch lanes. "No one."

"Which is exactly why you need to stay away." His voice sharpens. "If she sues—and she will sue—every hospital visit you make strengthens her case. You're establishing a pattern of guilt."

"I am guilty."

"You hit someone who walked into traffic at night—"

"I should have seen her."

"The police cleared you."

"I don't care."

He makes a sound like he wants to throw his phone. "You're impossible to defend."

"I'm not asking you to defend it."

I hang up.

---

My father died when I was fifteen.

Hit-and-run. Driver never stopped.

Dad was crossing the street after his night shift at the factory. Some drunk asshole hit him and kept driving. Left him bleeding on the pavement like roadkill.

A jogger found him two hours later.

Too late.

The driver was never caught.

I think about the kind of person who hits someone and just... drives away. Who goes home, parks their car, walks inside like nothing happened.

I won't be that person.

I can't.

---

Pinnacle Hospital smells like antiseptic and floor polish.

I asked the paramedics to bring her here instead of Westside Medical Centre. Better trauma unit. Better surgeons. And I have connections here—can make sure she gets the care she needs.

The receptionist looks up when I walk in. "Mr. King. Dr. Jorge asked me to send you to his office first. Second floor."

I nod and head for the elevators.

I've been here every day since the accident. Sat in her room while she was unconscious. Talked to the doctors. Hired Mrs. Henderson—one of the private care companions—to stay with her around the clock so she wouldn't wake up alone.

But she hasn't woken up.

Until today.

---

Dr. Jorge's office is on the second floor. Small. Neat. Shelves full of medical texts.

He gestures to a chair.

"How is she?"

"Stable. The swelling's going down. Fractured tibia is healing well. The concussion was mild." He pauses. "But there's a complication."

My chest tightens.

"She can't speak. The impact caused severe whiplash. Combined with the emergency intubation at the scene—her vocal cords took significant trauma."

I think about her trying to ask for help. Trying to call for someone.

Nothing coming out.

"Can you fix it?"

"Surgery can repair most of the damage. But we need to wait at least a week for the inflammation to subside. If we operate too soon, we risk making it worse."

I nod slowly, processing. A week. She'll spend a week unable to speak.

"And if she doesn't have surgery?"

"The damage will likely be permanent."

The word sits heavy between us.

Permanent.

Dr. Jorge shifts in his chair. "The challenge is consent. We can't proceed without identifying her or locating family." He opens a folder, scans it like he's hoping something new will appear. "We still haven't been able to find anyone. No ID. Her phone was destroyed in the accident. Just a handbag with some cash. No cards. No emergency contacts."

"If we can't get any information, the ethics board can authorize necessary procedures." He closes the folder. Hesitates. "There's also the financial aspect. Emergency care is covered by protocol, but surgery, extended hospital stay, rehabilitation..." He trails off. "Without insurance or family, we'll need payment arrangements."

"Bill my office."

Dr. Jorge studies me for a moment.

"Alright," he says finally. "I'll have billing contact your office."

I stand. "Can I see her?"

Dr. Jorge nods. "Go ahead."

I head for the door.

---

I take the stairs to the third floor.

I stop outside room 314. Take a breath, then push the door open.

Mrs. Henderson sits by the window with a book. She looks up, nods, then quietly stands and steps out to give us privacy.

I hired her the first night—told the hospital to assign someone to stay with the patient around the clock. I didn't want her waking up alone. Didn't want her to be afraid.

Then I see her.

Awake.

Pale. Bruising along her left cheek and temple, fading now from purple to yellow-green. Left leg elevated in a cast. IV in her arm. Her eyes are open, staring at the window.

Small. That's what strikes me every time. How small she looks in that hospital bed.

She turns her head slowly.

Our eyes meet.

Recognition flickers across her face—she remembers me from the accident. From my voice in the dark.

Not anger. Not relief.

Something else.

Like I've stolen something from her. But what could I have stolen by saving her life?

"You're awake." The words feel stupid the second they leave my mouth.

Her lips part. Trying to speak.

Nothing comes out.

Her eyes go wide. Hand flies to her throat.

She tries again. Her mouth forms words but no sound follows.

Panic.

Raw, animal panic.

Her breathing comes faster, shallower. Her hand presses against her throat like she can force the words out through sheer will.

I step closer.

She shakes her head violently.

"Mrs. Henderson—" I turn, but she's already coming back in with a nurse.

The nurse checks monitors. "Her heart rate's spiking again."

"This is the third episode since she woke up." The nurse's voice is calm, practiced. "It's normal. Patients panic when they realize they can't communicate."

The nurse adjusts something on the IV. Speaks in low, soothing tones.

Slowly, her breathing evens out.

The panic fades into exhaustion.

She slumps back against the pillow. Tears streaming down her face. Staring at nothing.

I stand there.

The nurse finishes her checks and leaves. Mrs. Henderson hovers near the door, uncertain.

I move closer to the bed.

"I'm the one who hit you," I say quietly. "Three nights ago. You were crossing the street near Westside Medical Centre, and I—I didn't see you in time."

She doesn't look at me.

Her hand moves. Gripping the blanket tighter.

She turns her head slowly.

The grief in her eyes is so deep it has nowhere left to go.

She looks at me for a long moment. I wait for anger. For blame.

Instead, I see nothing. Like she's already used up everything she has and there's nothing left for me.

Then she looks away.

I turn to Mrs. Henderson. "Anything she needs. Call my office immediately."

"Yes, Mr. King."

I leave before I can make it worse.

---

I sit in my car in the parking garage. Hands on the wheel. Engine off.

My phone buzzes. Mom's name.

I let it ring out.

She calls again. I silence it.

It's been weeks since I've seen her. Every visit is the same conversation—when am I getting married, when am I giving her grandchildren, why am I wasting my life on work.

I can't do that today. Not after seeing that woman's face.

My phone buzzes again. My secretary.

I answer.

"Mr. King, your mother's here. At the office. She says it's urgent."

I sit up. "What?"

"She arrived fifteen minutes ago. She's waiting in your office."

Mom never shows up at my office unannounced.

"I'm on my way."

I start the engine and pull out of the garage.

Something is wrong.