Chapter 21 Human Kindness
Consciousness returns in pieces.
First, sound. The steady beep of monitors. Hushed voices speaking medical jargon I don't understand. The soft swish of curtains being drawn.
Then sensation. Clean sheets beneath me. The pull of an IV in my arm. A dull ache in my abdomen, muted by what must be some seriously good painkillers.
Finally, smell. Antiseptic. Plastic. That distinctive hospital scent that's universal regardless of location.
I force my eyes open, wincing at the harsh fluorescent lights above.
I'm in a hospital room. Private, from the looks of it. Medical equipment surrounds my bed, monitors tracking heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen saturation. An IV pole stands sentinel beside me, pumping clear fluids into my arm.
And sitting in a chair by the window is a man in a white coat, reading through a chart.
He looks up when he hears me stir, and his weathered face creases into a gentle smile.
"Welcome back, Sage. I'm Dr. Harrison Chen." He sets the chart down and moves to my bedside. "You gave us quite a scare."
Dr. Chen. The name registers through my medication-fogged brain. Thomas's contact. The doctor who was supposed to help me once I made it to Vancouver.
"How..." My voice comes out as a raspy whisper. "How did you know to..."
"Your friend Damon contacted me when he heard about your early banishment. When the paramedics brought you in, I was already on alert, waiting." He pulls up a chair, sitting so we're at eye level. "You've been unconscious for almost twenty-four hours. We've been working around the clock to stabilize you."
Twenty-four hours. An entire day lost.
"The babies," I force out, even though I'm terrified of the answer. "Are they..."
Dr. Chen's expression shifts to something that looks like pity mixed with wonder. He reaches over and adjusts one of the monitors, turning it so I can see the screen.
"That's what I need to talk to you about, Sage." He takes a deep breath. "When you came in, you were in critical condition. Severe blood loss, infection, early stages of septic shock. We rushed you into emergency surgery to stop the bleeding and clean the infected wounds."
I close my eyes, bracing for the words I know are coming. The babies are dead. I killed them by not being strong enough, not being fast enough.
"During the surgery, we discovered something." Dr. Chen's voice is gentle. "You were pregnant with twins, Sage. Did you know that?"
Twins. The rogue had been right.
"I... I suspected. But I wasn't sure."
"The trauma you experienced was severe. The attack, the stress, the blood loss, the infection—it was too much." He pauses, and I can hear the regret in his voice. "I'm so very sorry, but we lost one of the babies. The smaller of the two. There was nothing we could do."
The words hit me like a physical blow. One of my babies is dead. Gone before they ever had a chance to live. Before I even knew for certain they existed.
I turn my face away, unable to stop the tears that spill down my cheeks.
"However," Dr. Chen continues, and something in his tone makes me look back at him. "The other baby survived. Your daughter. She's still with us, Sage. Still fighting."
My daughter.
I have a daughter.
"She's... she's alive?" I can barely breathe around the hope and fear warring in my chest.
"She is. Her heartbeat is strong. Stronger than it has any right to be given what you both went through." Dr. Chen adjusts the monitor again, and suddenly I can hear it. The rapid, steady thump-thump-thump of my daughter's heart.
It's the most beautiful sound I've ever heard.
"I've been practicing obstetrics for thirty years," Dr. Chen says quietly, "and I have never seen a fetus show such resilience after this kind of trauma. The vitality she's displaying is... extraordinary. Almost unprecedented."
I place my hand on my stomach, feeling for the bump that's still there. Still real. My daughter is in there, fighting to live despite everything that's tried to kill her.
"Will she..." I can barely form the question. "Will she be okay?"
"We're monitoring her closely. The next few days are critical. If the heartbeat remains strong and there are no signs of fetal distress, then yes, I believe she'll be okay." He meets my eyes. "But Sage, you need to understand—this is a miracle. By all medical logic, you should have lost both babies. The fact that one survived defies everything I know about trauma and pregnancy."
"Why?" The question comes out raw. "Why did one die and one live?"
"I don't know. Sometimes these things don't have answers that make sense." Dr. Chen's hand rests gently on mine. "But what I do know is that your daughter is a fighter. Just like her mother."
A fighter. Like me.
"Can you tell... can you tell which one I lost?" I need to know. Need to understand who I'm grieving.
Dr. Chen hesitates, then nods. "Based on the positioning and development, the baby we lost was male. Your son. He was slightly smaller than his sister, which may have made him more vulnerable to the trauma."
My son. I had a son, and now he's gone.
The grief is overwhelming. It crashes over me in waves, threatening to pull me under. I curl onto my side as much as the IV and monitors will allow, sobbing for the child I never got to meet. The son who died before I could even tell him I loved him.
Dr. Chen doesn't try to stop my tears or offer empty platitudes. He just sits there, a quiet presence, letting me grieve.
Eventually, the sobs subside into quiet tears, and then into hiccupping breaths.
"I'm sorry," I finally whisper. "I should be grateful. My daughter is alive. I should focus on that."
"You can be grateful and devastated at the same time," Dr. Chen says gently. "Grief doesn't cancel out hope, Sage. You're allowed to mourn your son while celebrating your daughter's survival."
He's right. I know he's right. But it still feels wrong somehow. Like I'm betraying my living child by mourning the one I lost.
"What happens now?" I ask, desperate to focus on something practical. Something I can control.
"Now, you rest and heal. The infection is under control, but you'll need to stay on IV antibiotics for at least another three days. After that, assuming your daughter continues to thrive, we can discuss long-term care and what your next steps should be." Dr. Chen stands, preparing to leave. "Do you have anyone you want us to contact? Anyone who should know you're here?"
I think of Damon, probably frantic with worry. Of Mrs. Chen, wondering if I made it to safety. But contacting them would put them at risk. Would give Stella and Mason ammunition to use against them.
"No," I lie. "There's no one."
Dr. Chen's expression tells me he knows I'm lying, but he doesn't push. "Well, for what it's worth, you're not alone now. Thomas vouched for you, and that's good enough for me. We'll take care of you here. Make sure you and your daughter have everything you need."
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, but they're all I have. "Thank you for saving us."
"Thank David and Rachel," he replies. "They're the ones who found you. Who stayed with you until help arrived. I just did my job."
After he leaves, I lie in the hospital bed, one hand on my stomach, feeling the slight movement of the life still growing inside me.
My daughter.
I picture her tiny heart beating away, refusing to give up despite every reason to quit. Fighting for survival just like I am.
"I'm sorry," I whisper to her. "I'm sorry I couldn't protect your brother. But I promise you—I swear on everything I am—I will keep you safe. No matter what it takes. No matter who I have to fight. You're going to live. You're going to grow up strong and loved and free."
The monitor continues its steady beeping, tracking both our heartbeats. Two lives, intertwined and dependent on each other.
I think about the rogue who carried me to the trail. About David and Rachel who stopped to help a stranger. About Dr. Chen who's protecting me even though I'm not pack, not family, nothing to him at all.
Sometimes salvation comes from the most unexpected sources.
Sometimes kindness appears in the darkest moments.
And sometimes, even when everything seems lost, a tiny heartbeat reminds you that there's still something worth fighting for.
I close my eyes, exhaustion pulling me toward sleep. But before I drift off, I make one more promise.
To my son, wherever he is: "I'll never forget you. And I'll make sure your sister knows she had a brother who loved her, even if he never got the chance to meet her."
To my daughter: "I'll be strong enough this time. I won't let anyone hurt you. I won't let anyone take you from me."
And to myself: "You survived. Against all odds, you survived. Now make it count."
Sleep takes me gently this time. No nightmares, no pain. Just darkness and the steady sound of two hearts beating as one.
When I wake again, it's to the soft sound of the door opening.
A nurse enters, carrying a tray of food and a gentle smile. But it's what she says that makes my
blood run cold.
"Good afternoon, Sage. You have a visitor. A young man who says he's your friend." She pauses. "His name is Damon."