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

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

This is all her fault. If she went with you, if she sent your dad or Miles with you, if she reminded you to bring your phone, none of this would’ve happened.

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

Hours passed and Jefferson 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 scratches and bruises from trying to fight them off—your father is going to do so much goddamn worse to them.

All she’s got for now is fantasies of what they’re going to inflict on those animals while she waits for you to wake up.