The hum of the portable oxygen concentrator was the only sound in the lodge's makeshift infirmary. Mild blinked, his vision swimming through a haze of fever-dreams. The last thing he remembered was the smell of woodsmoke and the terrifying, steady beat of Arm's heart against his back.
"You're awake," a voice whispered. It was Zen, sitting in a plastic chair by the bed, looking uncharacteristically haggard.
Mild tried to sit up, his throat feeling like it was lined with glass. "Where... where is he? Did he leave?"
Zen looked toward the heavy curtain at the end of the room. "He didn't leave, Mild. He couldn't. They pulled him out of the lobby floor three hours ago. He's in the next bay over, being treated for stage two hypothermia and a possible concussion."
Mild's hand went to his chest, clutching the hospital gown. "He stayed in the cabin. He said he was going for help, but the bridge was gone..."
