He woke to the sound of rain.

  At first, he couldn’t tell how long it had been falling, or how long he’d been asleep. Hours, maybe. A day. More? Time felt loose here, unanchored, measured only by the steady patter against wood and stone. The air was cool and clean, the kind that carried the scent of wet earth and leaves. Wind brushed past whatever walls surrounded him, low and gentle, like the forest breathing.

  It should have been comforting.

  The bed beneath him certainly was. It was soft in a way he wasn’t used to, cradling him. For a fleeting moment, he considered letting himself drift back under. Maybe forever. Let the rain wash the world away.

  But his body refused the idea.

  He let out a long breath. “I’m being a little baby,” he muttered to the dark.

  The words rang hollow even to him. What did toughness matter now? What good was grit, or mindset, or perspective, when he couldn’t even sit up without pain blooming through his veins? Mental fortitude was for people who could act—who could move, fight, change things.

  Right now, he was just a blind man in a borrowed bed.

  “You seem sad,” the youthful feminine voice said softly, somewhere nearby.

  Barrett huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I think I’ve got a few reasons.”

  “I suppose you do,” she replied, not teasing this time—just gentle, understanding.

  Silence settled again, broken only by the rain tapping steadily and the faint creak of wood responding to the wind. The chill lingered at the edges, but it wasn’t unpleasant. If anything, it felt…safe.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re at my home, silly,” she said, cheer creeping back into her voice.

  He shifted slightly, testing his body. The pain was still there, deep and insistent, but no longer blinding. “How did I get here?”

  “I brought you,” she answered easily. “You were in quite a pickle.”

  “You?” He frowned, disbelief tugging at him. “How did you even get through all those spiders?”

  She giggled, light and musical. “I have my ways. You don’t grow up in the central forest without learning how to deal with spiders.”

  He nodded slowly. That…made sense. Enough, anyway.

  “Did you see the others?” he asked, a knot forming in his chest. “The people I was with?”

  “The ones on the raft?”

  His breath left him in a rush. “Are they okay?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “They’ll be fine. They’re heading toward the island where the others live.”

  “Others?”

  “Other humans,” she explained. “It’s safe there. The spiders don’t go near it.”

  Relief washed through him, heavy and dizzying. He let his head sink back into the pillow.

  “How do you live out here?” he asked quietly.

  “I told you,” she said, playful again. “I have my ways.”

  The rain continued its steady rhythm. The warmth of exhaustion crept back in, dragging his thoughts toward sleep. After a while, he spoke again, voice low.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome,” she replied. “Now rest.”

  The rain whispered around him, and he eased back into sleep, letting the world fade.

  —12 years ago—

  The heart monitor kept time in the small hospital room, its steady rhythm rising and falling with his breath. A thin, mechanical pulse that was calm and consistent. It was the only thing in the room that didn’t feel like it might shatter if touched too hard.

  Barrett lay propped against stiff pillows, his body wrapped in layers of gauze and tape, white against bruised skin. Painkillers dulled the sharpest edges, sanding agony down into something survivable, but they couldn’t reach the deeper ache. That one sat behind his ribs, heavy and unmoving, like it had settled in and decided it belonged there now.

  His mother sat beside him, hands folded tightly in her lap. She watched him the way people watched storms from indoors—alert, contained, pretending the glass between them was thicker than it really was. Her face stayed composed, but her eyes betrayed her, glassy despite her efforts to keep them steady.

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  She hadn’t changed after work. Her clothes were neat and precise, the kind chosen for long meetings and decisive conversations. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight bun, not a strand out of place. She was a manager at a tech company. She believed problems were meant to be solved, inefficiencies eliminated. Push hard enough, long enough, and anything would give.

  That philosophy had served her well.

  After a long stretch of silence, she spoke.

  “I brought your homework,” she said gently. “Might give you something to do.”

  She placed a small stack of papers and books on the tray table, aligning them with unnecessary care. One rested on top, its spine worn smooth, pages softened by time and touch.

  Don Quixote.

  Barrett didn’t respond. His gaze stayed fixed on the window, on the pale strip of sky beyond it. Clouds drifted past without urgency, as if the world hadn’t noticed he’d been knocked flat. As if nothing important had happened at all.

  His mother sighed, the sound thin and tired.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. He could hear the tears she refused to let fall. “Honestly.”

  “Stop.” Barrett lifted a hand, palm out. The word came out flat—not angry, just exhausted. He couldn’t take this right now. Not her fear. Not her guilt. Not the weight of questions he didn’t have answers for.

  She hesitated, then spoke anyway, quieter now, almost to herself. “Maybe we could look at changing schools. A fresh start—”

  “I’m done with school,” he said with a finality that didn’t leave room for discussion.

  She finally looked at him, really looked at him. “Then what are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know yet.” He turned his face toward the wall, jaw tight.

  Silence returned, thicker this time. Then she tried a different approach, carefully measured.

  “I heard you took on more than ten guys,” she said. “Your grandfather would have been proud.”

  Barrett let out a short laugh. Then another. The sound cracked loose and turned into something sharp and bitter.

  “My grandfather?” He wiped at his eye with the back of his hand. “He’d be proud I fought ten guys—at a university.”

  She frowned. “He always worried about you growing up soft. He cared about you, Barrett.”

  “Yeah?” Barrett shot back. “Not an advanced degree. Not an internship. He’d be proud I got my ass kicked at a party?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “This family is so freaking stupid,” Barrett muttered.

  “We just wanted you to have the strength to protect yourself,” she said, her voice rising despite herself. “Nobody told you to go looking for trouble.”

  “I didn’t ask for trouble.” Barrett shoved himself upright, the motion sending a lance of white-hot pain through his body. He sucked in a sharp breath, vision blurring, but he refused to stop. “I’m a wild animal trapped in a petting zoo. You made me this way.”

  Her expression didn’t soften. “I can’t make you into anything,” she said, voice clipped, defensive.

  “Muscle doesn’t choose to grow,” Barrett shot back. “It grows because something keeps crushing it. Over and over.”

  Something in her eyes cooled, hardened into steel.

  “You’re an adult now,” she said, each word precise. “It’s time to stop blaming me, and decide who you’re going to be.”

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  At last, she stood, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from her clothes—a habit she’d always had when she didn’t know what else to do.

  “I need to go,” she said.

  Barrett didn’t reply.

  She paused at the door, her hand resting against the frame. “I love you, Barrett.”

  He didn’t turn to look at her. His voice was quiet when he answered.

  “My name’s Brad.”

  She nodded once, as if struck but unwilling to show it, and then she left. The door closed softly behind her.

  The room felt colder.

  Barrett lay there as the distance between them settled in, something wide and aching and impossible to cross. He hated it. Hated that it existed at all. Part of him wished she’d come back, that they could try again without defenses, without ego, before the silence became permanent.

  Emotion swelled up, hot and humiliating.

  I’m such a baby.

  He reached for the book she’d left behind and opened it, letting the pages fill his vision. He couldn’t leave this bed. He couldn’t leave this room.

  But his mind still could.

  And for now, that was enough.

  —

  Barrett’s eyes snapped open, lashes still damp from tears he hadn’t remembered crying. His chest rose and fell in a shallow rhythm, the remnants of old fear clinging to him like sweat after a nightmare.

  He stared up at the dark stone ceiling.

  “…To hell with this.”

  Gritting his teeth, he forced himself upright. Pain flared immediately, but it wasn’t the blinding agony from before. This was manageable. A reminder, not a warning.

  Slowly, carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and let his feet touch the ground.

  Stone. Cold.

  His legs trembled as he stood. Weak. Hollow. His stomach growled in protest, loud enough to echo faintly off the cave walls.

  Before he could take another step, a voice drifted in—light, bright, and entirely too cheerful for the state he was in.

  “Looks like you’re feeling better.”

  He exhaled through his nose and straightened as much as he could manage. “I’m not dead yet,” he muttered.

  Ignoring the protest from every muscle, Barrett dropped into a shallow squat. His knees screamed. His balance wavered. He pushed back up anyway.

  Once.

  Twice.

  By the third, his breath was coming fast, sweat already beading at his temples.

  “Oh—no, no,” the voice said quickly, concern threading through the cheer. “You really shouldn’t push yourself yet. You’re still recovering.”

  Barrett stopped, hands braced on his thighs, chest heaving. The room tilted slightly, edges going soft. He waited it out.

  “I hate to be a burden,” he said between breaths, “but you got anything to eat?”

  “Of course!” the voice replied without hesitation. Then, gentler: “But…may I ask you something first?”

  He straightened and nodded, rolling his shoulders before lowering himself into another squat—shallower this time.

  “Go ahead.”

  “You were so still before,” she said. “So quiet. And now…you’re moving like you’re afraid to stop. What changed?”

  Barrett pushed himself upright again, legs shaking. Sweat dripped down his spine. He let the silence stretch before answering.

  “I’ve quit before,” he said finally. “I already know how that story ends.”

  There was a pause on the other end. Not awkward, but thoughtful.

  “I see,” she said softly.

  He wiped his face with the back of his hand, then glanced toward the sound of her voice. “What’s your name, anyway?”

  “Rebby!” she said brightly. “And yours?”

  Barrett stopped moving.

  He stood there for a moment, breath steadying, fingers curling slowly into a fist at his side. The ache in his body was real. So was the resolve settling in his chest.

  “Barrett,” he said. Then, after a beat, stronger. “Barrett Donovan.”

  The name felt heavier this time.

  And he welcomed the weight.