The hot water stung every cut, every bruise. Novalee cried out.
"I know. I'm sorry. I know." Atlas supported her, his hands gentle despite the horror. "Just breathe. Focus on breathing."
He cleaned her wounds with steady hands. Bandaged the worst ones. Gave her painkillers from his medical kit—stronger than usual.
"This is getting worse," he said quietly.
"This is getting worse," he said quietly.
Novalee tried to respond. Her mouth opened but only a rasp came out. Her voice was gone.
"Don't try to talk." Atlas's hands were gentle, applying antiseptic to the worst wounds. "Your throat—after all that screaming—you need to rest it."
She nodded. Her eyes said what her voice couldn't: *I know.*
"You need a doctor. Real medical care." He looked at her torn body, the bleeding, the damage.
