19. Lila
LILA
I wonder if they’re right when they say you can die of heartbreak.
Not the romantic kind, but the kind that feels like your chest is caving in when you lose something that was your last connection to someone you loved.
That’s what’s happening to me right now, staring at the ceiling of this hospital exam room while a doctor I can’t be bothered to remember the name of prods at my feet.
“These cuts aren’t too deep, but you’ll need to keep them clean. Glass can be nasty,” she explains, though her words feel distant, like they’re drifting up from far away.
My dad’s truck is gone. Really gone this time. There’s no coming back from this.
The same truck he taught me to drive when I was twelve, both of us laughing as I ground the gears.
The truck where I fell asleep after countless chases, curled up on the bench seat with my head in his lap while he drove us home.
The truck that held his coffee thermos in the console—the one I never washed because it was the last thing he’d used.
Flipped. Crushed. Gone. I had fought the insurance company for it after they totaled it, bought it back at salvage price, fixed it myself, accepted that a rebuilt title meant no second chances. I knew the risk going in.
It’s just that I never thought I’d actually lose it. It’s gone. Just like him.
“Ms. Brooks? Did you hear me?” The doctor’s words cut through the haze.
“Sorry, what?”
“I said we need to check your shoulder again.”
I nod mechanically. I don’t even wince when she pokes at the wound, which probably isn’t a good sign. I should probably care more about that. The doctor frowns at me, concern etching deeper lines into her already serious face.
“Your stitches are intact, which is frankly miraculous considering what you’ve been through, but I’m worried about your mental state. Are you feeling lightheaded? Confused?”
I almost laugh. Confused doesn’t begin to cover it.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
She doesn’t believe me—her expression makes that clear—but she continues her examination anyway, shining a penlight in my eyes that makes me wince.
“Any dizziness? Nausea?”
“No,” I answer automatically, though I’m not really sure. Everything feels disconnected, like I’m floating above my body, watching this happen to someone else.
The doctor sighs, making notes on her tablet. “I’m going to prescribe something to help you sleep tonight. And I strongly recommend speaking with someone about what you’ve experienced. Trauma like this?—”
“I don’t need therapy,” I cut her off. “I need my truck back.”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them.
They sound childish, petulant. But it’s true.
That truck wasn’t just transportation. It was my dad’s mobile office, his pride and joy, the place where he taught me everything I know about storms. All of his custom equipment—some of which doesn’t even exist anymore—was in that truck.
Equipment I’ve maintained since he died. Gone in a split second.
The doctor gives me a look that’s half pity, half exasperation. “Ms. Brooks, I understand your attachment to your vehicle, but right now my concern is your physical and mental wellbeing.”
I turn my head away, staring at the wall. There’s a poster about proper hand-washing technique that I find myself studying with unnatural intensity. Anything to avoid the doctor’s concerned gaze.
“Fine,” I mutter. “I’ll take the sleeping pills.”
She nods, apparently satisfied with this small victory.
“Good. I’ll have the nurse bring them by.
You should rest here for a few hours before we discharge you.
” She heads for the door, then pauses. “Your friend has been asking about you. He came in about twenty minutes after you, but he’s already been discharged. Would you like me to send him in?”
Jonah. The memory of him lifting me from the wreckage, his arms a sturdy fortress around me as chaos erupted, floods my thoughts.
In that moment, I felt an overwhelming sense of safety, as if nothing could penetrate the bubble he created.
The world outside was a cacophony of destruction, yet within his embrace, time seemed to stop.
I could have faced the end right then and there, and I would have welcomed it, content to leave this life with him shielding me and Max from the storm’s fury.
His heartbeat thrummed against my ear, a steady rhythm that whispered promises of protection, grounding me in the midst of turmoil.
All the fears and uncertainties that usually gnawed at my insides faded away, replaced by a profound peace.
But that was then. In those fleeting moments of chaos, I could have died right there in Jonah’s arms, with Max pressed between us, and it would have been okay. I would have been okay. Now though? Now I’m not so sure.
“Ms. Brooks?” The doctor is still standing at the door, waiting for my answer about Jonah.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice sounding hollow even to my own ears. “Send him in.”
After she leaves, I stare at my feet, now bandaged and elevated. The cuts sting, but I barely feel them. It’s like my body has decided the physical pain isn’t worth processing when there’s an emotional void this massive threatening to swallow me whole.
A few minutes later, there’s a soft knock at the door. Jonah steps in,, now in hospital scrubs instead of his pajamas. Max follows close behind, golden fur wet, collar jingling as he pads toward the bed.
“Hey,” Jonah says, moving in carefully, like I might break if he gets too close. Maybe he’s not wrong.
“Hey,” I manage, rough around the edges. “You okay?”
“Am I okay?” He shoots me a look, part disbelief, part concern. “I’m not the one who tried to walk barefoot through a tornado debris field.”
I shrug, then wince as pain shoots through my shoulder. “Not my smartest move.”
Max whines, tugging at the leash to get closer. Jonah hesitates, glancing toward the door.
“They’re not thrilled about him being here,” he explains, lowering his tone. “I had to convince them he’s a therapy dog. Which, technically, isn’t entirely untrue right now.”
“They’ll have to drag him out,” I say, reaching my good hand toward Max. “Come here, buddy.”
Jonah brings him closer, and Max immediately rests his chin on the edge of my bed, like he’s checking for damage. I scratch behind his ears, finding comfort in his solid presence.
“How bad is it?” I ask, not looking at Jonah.
“There was a couple a few rooms down from us. They didn’t make it. Neither did the clerk working the front desk.”
The words hit me like a physical blow, making my chest tighten. People died. Real people who were just sleeping in their beds or working the night shift, gone while I survived. The unfairness of it crashes over me. Strangers died while my biggest concern is a truck.
“God,” I whisper, suddenly feeling selfish and small. “That’s?—”
“I know,” Jonah says quietly, pulling a chair closer to my bed. He sits down, his knee brushing against the edge of the mattress. “The authorities are searching through the wreckage. It cut a path about half a mile wide through the town.”
I swallow hard, fighting against the lump forming in my throat.
“Three minutes earlier or if it had tracked west, and we would’ve been...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t need to.
Max whines softly, pressing his head more firmly against my hand like he can sense the darkness of my thoughts. I focus on the warmth of his fur beneath my fingers, using it to anchor myself to the present.
“How did you get here?” I ask, suddenly realizing I don’t know how we made it from the devastated motel to this hospital.
“One of the first responders gave us a ride. You were...” Jonah hesitates, choosing his words carefully. “You were in shock and bleeding.”
I don’t remember much about getting into the ambulance. Everything after seeing Dad’s truck blurs together—rain, voices, and someone—Jonah, I think—telling me it would be okay. Nothing about this is okay.
“The EMTs were concerned about your feet,” Jonah continues, pulling me back to the present. “And you were unresponsive.”
I look down at the bandages, only now noticing the dull throb beneath the gauze. The pain feels far away, like it belongs to someone else.
“I remember walking to the truck,” I say slowly, the memory coming in pieces. “And then nothing.”
Jonah’s hand shifts like he might reach for mine, then stops, hovering for a second before dropping back to his lap. “You went into shock. The paramedics said it was a mix of the trauma, your existing injury, and the glass in your feet.”
I nod, taking it in without really feeling it. “What about our stuff? The equipment?”
“Gone,” Jonah says quietly. “Outside of our bags that I grabbed before it hit, nothing else made it.”
The loss stacks up, pressing down until it’s hard to breathe.
“The data?” I ask, the words sounding strange even to me.
“The data doesn’t matter right now, Lila. You do.”
Something raw snaps inside me. Heat surges through, burning away the numbness.
“Don’t tell me what matters,” I shoot back, pulling my hand from Max’s fur. “That data was everything. My dad’s equipment—his legacy—was everything. And it’s all gone because I agreed to this stupid partnership!”
Jonah flinches like I struck him. “Lila?—”
“No!” The word rips out of me, louder than I mean it. “If I hadn’t brought you along on this chase, if I hadn’t been so focused on showing you everything, none of this would have happened!”
Max whimpers, pressing closer to the bed as I raise my voice. I can’t stop now, the words keep coming, spilling out.
“I would’ve been in a different motel, or maybe nowhere near one. I’d have my truck. I’d have Dad’s equipment. The only things I had left of him—” The words catch, and I hate it—hate the tears pushing up behind them.