After a couple of weeks of recovery, I guess I'm... okay. Physically, at least. My body's stopped hurting in all the obvious ways. The bruises faded, the cuts healed. My legs don't shake when I walk anymore. My arms don't flinch when someone moves too fast around me. So, I guess that's what they call okay.
My family flew back to the States not long after they came. They took Logan with them. Said it was better that way. Easier. Safer. Maybe they were right, but the whole thing felt like an unfinished sentence. They were here and then... gone. Like a gust of wind—fast, quiet, and cold. They barely stayed long enough for the hugs to mean anything. Even their voices sounded rehearsed, like they were reading lines off a script they weren't allowed to change.
They knew something. All of them.
