They took over—oxygen, bagging, monitor—moving with that clipped confidence that makes you believe in systems again. I stumbled back, shaking.
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They lifted the man onto a stretcher. His eyes fluttered open. He looked right at me, like he was trying to hold onto something.
He rasped, “Marker.”
I leaned in. “What?”
The next morning, someone knocked like they meant it.
He grabbed my wrist. “Your name. Write it. So I don’t forget.”
Someone shoved a marker into my hand. I wrote on the inside of his wrist:
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BRIAR.
He stared at it like it was a life raft. Then the ambulance doors shut.
I walked home like I was underwater. I got in the shower and cried until my throat hurt. Not just about Jace. About being 28 and still fighting for what I wanted. About people watching someone die and worrying about germs.
“You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, right?”
***
The next morning, someone knocked like they meant it.
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When I opened the door, I froze. A black limo sat at the curb like a glitch in reality. And standing there, clean and put together, was the man from the alley.
He smiled. “You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, right?”
I stared. “Either I hit my head, or you’re about to sell me something.”
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