Checkered Hearts
"What we need. Specifically. Particularly. Non-replicably."
Cyrus held them, the terror that was subsiding, the presence that was replacing it, the love that was not conditional on survival but was absolutely, desperately, specifically invested in it. He felt Arthie's heart rate through the racing suit, the residual elevation that was normal, appropriate, the rhythm that was regular, the life that was continuing.
"Your rate," he murmured, the doctor that was always present. "At Eau Rouge. One-sixty-five. Above threshold."