Zoe POV

I rest my hand against his chest.

His temperature is normal—or close enough to normal that I stop holding my breath. The shallow, damaged quality his breathing had an hour ago has smoothed out. His color is marginally better. His pulse is steady under my palm, slow but consistent, the rhythm of someone who is healing rather than fading.

I sit back down beside him and let the tension drain out of my shoulders one degree at a time.

"I don't know what I'm ...