Early autumn twilight had fallen on the suburbs when Abigail, who had been sitting in the car for what felt like an eternity, finally turned the ignition key and pulled onto the road. Her hands no longer trembled. Instead of the despair that had gripped her for days, a sense of gladness flowed through her like wine. She had done it—found the money for Charlie’s surgery.

  She tried not to dwell on what she had done to get it, or on the consequences if anyone discovered it. Now there was only one thing that mattered: her godfather would survive.

  But she needed to hurry. She had wasted enough time searching for money, pleading, and fighting with Charlie’s family. His ex-wife and daughter had mocked her—her pleas, her very desire to save his life. They hadn’t even bothered to hide that they wanted him dead.

  Those greedy bitches…

  Abigail imagined their faces when they learned Charlie had survived and was recovering.

  She pressed the accelerator harder. Then a thought struck her. She took out her smartphone and made a call. It failed. She tried again. Then she noticed there was no service—she was passing through the forest at the city’s edge. Switching to a messenger app, she dictated a voice message:

  “Doctor Colbert, this is Abigail. I have the money. I am on my way to the hospital. Prepare Charlie for surgery immediately.”

  She ended the message, turned off the phone, and thought she saw something—or someone—beside the car. She swerved sharply and stomped on the brake. The car spun and stopped across the road.

  Abigail jumped out and looked back. For a moment, she froze—had she just struck someone?

  The next second, she rushed to him, surprised she had not felt the impact. Leaning over, she realized she had not knocked him down. The man was covered in blood, with scratches and bruises across his face and arms. He was breathing heavily, yet conscious. He peered up at her, trying to make sense of who she was. Using his last strength, he pressed his hands to his side.

  Abigail moved his hands aside and saw a huge stab wound. His face was pale, lips tight. He must have lost a lot of blood.

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  “Don’t move,” she said firmly. “I’ll be right back.”

  She ran to the car for the first-aid kit and applied a bandage. An ambulance would have been the right call—but Abigail knew she could get him to the hospital faster herself. She draped his arm over her shoulder and helped him into the passenger seat. By the time she fastened his seatbelt, he was unconscious.

  She climbed into the driver’s seat. Calm, focused—the way she always was when someone’s life depended on her—she started the engine and sped toward the city.

  Abigail glanced at the man beside her. Proud, sharply defined profile. A firm chin. Though unconscious, his breathing rapid and shallow, he did not seem like a man who would easily let go of what he valued.

  She kept whispering the same words like a mantra, not fully aware whether she was saying them to the wounded man or to herself.

  *

  He did not feel pain, which was both strange and frightening. He could see numerous minor injuries on his arms and hands. He struggled through the forest barefoot, stepping on fallen branches and getting tangled in thorny grass. And the wet, warm feeling under his palms pressed to his side—it seemed like a massive wound.

  Why doesn’t it hurt? And why is it so cold?

  He had no clear idea where he was, but it couldn’t be too far from the city. The forest couldn’t be so wild and impenetrable. Sooner or later, he would come across a house, a farm, or a road. Somewhere, he could find help. Or death.

  He listened to himself. There was no fear, just as there was no pain. All that remained was the urge to move his legs and press on the wound—as long as he had strength.

  Suddenly, his foot found no solid ground. He stumbled, fell, and rolled into a shallow ditch. He lay still for a few moments, counting the beats of his heart, loud in his ears. Then he forced himself up and climbed out.

  Something had changed. The ground beneath him leveled, and the darkness began to lift, as if a distant lantern had been lit. The light grew brighter and brighter—someone was approaching. Finally, it flooded everything around him, blinding him. It seemed the stream of light itself knocked him off his feet, and he fell again—this time onto hard asphalt, unable to rise. It was as if the light had vanished, leaving darkness in its place.

  All he managed to take with him into the abyss was the woman's face leaning over him. Her lips moved. He thought he could hear her voice, but the words would not come together into anything meaningful. He focused on the movement of her lips, on the sounds that fell from them.

  Stay. With. Me.

  Stay with me.

  “I'm staying,” he replied. Silently, his tongue frozen in his mouth as if glued there. “I'll stay with you. I promise.”

  A quiet calm came over him, and he allowed himself to sink into darkness, peacefully, as if sinking into a pillow.