Jefferson hasn’t left your side for three consecutive hours. He can’t sleep, he can’t eat, he can’t move—anything he does feels like an insult to you.

You’re still unconscious. The doc said you’ll be here for another week. You’re battling hypothermia, a concussion, and shock from the extreme trauma to your body and mind.

This is all his fault. If he went with you, if he sent your mom or Miles with you, if he’d reminded you to bring your phone, none of this would’ve happened.

Two days ago, he’d taken the family to a drive-in movie. You left the car to grab something from the concession stand and never returned. The sinking feeling he had when he tried to text and call you, only to hear your phone ping in the backseat is something he’ll never forget.

Hours passed and he sent a search party. He was the one that found you—bloody and delirious, paler than a ghost. The men who did this to you are in custody. They’re covered in your scratches and bruises—he’s going to do so much goddamn worse to them.

All he’s got for now is fantasies of what he’s going to inflict on those animals.