Cole’s Point of View

The cold air cuts into my face as I walk down the dark sidewalk, carrying hot soup in a paper bag. The motel on the outskirts of Seattle seems even gloomier at night, as if the shadows themselves know who I am and what I carry with me. The dim light from the streetlights barely illuminates the old, peeling facade.

But none of that matters. My focus is Zoe. She's in the room, feverish, bruised, too vulnerable to be alone. And I... I've become the kind of man who walks through the night with soup in his hand because of a girl. The thought makes something tighten inside me, something I try to ignore. But my cell phone vibrates in my pocket—another call from Alabama. The screen glows with a code I've spent my life avoiding.

Adam.

My best friend, or at least what's left of him. I reject the call for the fifth time today. But it's no use. Alabama won't leave me alone. Not this time. My uncle called too. Messages, insistence, desperation between the lines. That city is burning, and I know that sooner or later they'll drag me back.

I push the thought away when I reach the room. The key trembles between my fingers — not from fear, but from accumulated tension. I enter quietly. The room is a miserable refuge, but it's still the safest place I've found for her. I place the soup and medicine on the table and approach the bed. Zoe is lying curled up under the thin sheet. Her fever seems to have subsided a little, and her breathing is more stable. Seeing her like this—fragile and strong at the same time—makes my throat tighten.

I touch her arm gently.

"Zoe... wake up."

She opens her eyes with effort. When she sees me, a small smile appears, and for a fraction of a second the world becomes... less dark.

"How long have I been asleep?" she murmurs.

"A few hours." I pick up the soup and place it on the table next to her. "How are you feeling?"

She makes a vague gesture with her hand. The smile is weak but sincere.

"Worse than death... but better than before."

"If you don't eat, I'll have to feed you like a baby."

I speak deliberately lightly, trying to take some of the weight off that night. She grimaces.

"So you've gone from mechanic to babysitter for a grumpy girl?"

I laugh—and the sound of her laughing too, even if softly, hits me like a shot.

"I like being your babysitter." She blushes. It's so quick that maybe no one would notice... but I notice everything about her.

She picks up the bowl, finally giving in.

"Then you must be doing very well." As she eats slowly, I watch. Each sip is a relief. Each tremor of her arm reminds me of the urgency we need to get out of this place. "Thank you for taking care of me," she says, her eyes locked on mine.

It should be a simple sentence. But to me, it falls like a confession.

"You're welcome, princess. I just want you to get better."

After she eats and showers, the room falls into a deep silence. I lie down on the other bed—too narrow for me—and try to rest. Exhaustion overwhelms me, and darkness pulls me in without resistance. But I wake up abruptly.

Zoe is moaning. It's not a normal moan of pain. It's agony.

I get up so fast that the world spins for a second. I touch her forehead, and it's burning.

"Damn..."

She's unconscious, her face contorted, her body too hot. Her fever has spiked. Dangerous... Very dangerous.

I shake her gently.

"Zoe. Princess. Wake up. Come on, look at me."

Nothing.

I try to stay calm, but my heart is racing. I grab my phone and call the front desk.

"My girlfriend has a very high fever. She won't wake up."

The lie comes easily, because there is no better explanation for a desperate man like me. The receptionist responds with bureaucratic coldness.

"She needs to go to a hospital."

"I can't take her now." I force my voice to stay steady, even though panic is burning in my chest. "I'll pay triple the room rate if you help me."

Silence.

"I'll bring cold compresses. And tea."

Minutes later, there's a knock on the door. She enters, looks at Zoe, and frowns.

"The compress won't be enough. She needs cold water. A cold bath." Her tone turns my stomach. It seems to be either that or watch Zoe burn alive.

I thank her, pay her, and close the door behind her. I turn on the tap in the bathroom minutes later; the bathtub is disgusting. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters but saving Zoe. I fill it with ice-cold water. I throw in the ice packs. Then I go back to the bedroom. Zoe is shaking, her lips are chapped, her body is convulsing slightly from the high fever. I pick her up in my arms; she's too hot. So hot it feels like it's burning my skin.

"I've got you," I murmur, more to myself than to her. "I won't let you go."

I step into the bathtub with her already in my arms. The cold water cuts through me like blades, but that's irrelevant. I let her lean back against my chest, holding her head above water. I splash cold water on her face. She shivers, murmurs, her breathing rapid and irregular.

"It'll be okay. I'm here."

It's strange how those words come out of me. I'm not that man. I shouldn't be. But with her... I am.

Minutes drag on like hours. My mind races, weighing the risks. Hospital means being found. Being found means dying. And I can't lose this girl.

Suddenly—a miracle. The heavens seem to hear me. The shaking subsides. Her breathing slows. Her eyes begin to open, heavy and confused.

"That's it... good girl," I whisper, too relieved. "Stay with me."

Her eyes close again, but the heat isn't as extreme anymore. The fever is breaking—slowly, but it is. I lift Zoe out of the tub carefully. She's cold, too light in my arms. She feels like she might break if I hold her wrong.

I dry her off quickly. I dress her in one of my shirts and shorts. I lay her on the bed. She mumbles incoherently—mom, dad, and that damn name James again...

I give her the tea, the medicine. She swallows it all unconsciously, a pure miracle. Then I call the front desk again.

"I need you to stay with her for a few hours. I'll pay whatever you want."

"Okay," she says. "But where are you going?"

"To do whatever it takes to get her out of here before dawn." When the woman enters the room, I explain everything with military clarity: "Don't open the door. Don't let anyone in. If Zoe wakes up, call me. If anyone touches the door, call me."

She agrees.

I approach the bed. Zoe is breathing better now. Her forehead isn't as hot anymore. I lean over and kiss her forehead—a light, almost non-existent touch.

"I'll come back for you," I whisper. "And when I come back, nothing will hurt you. I promise."

I leave the room. I close the door behind me.

And I take with me the absolute certainty that I would still kill anyone—including myself—if it meant keeping Zoe alive.