The air in the hospital was dry and grating, with chemical smells covering the odor of sickness. Cold white light shone on the sheets of Lydia's bed, thin after years of bleaching. Her vitality was marked by slow mechanical beeps, but her face was covered in gashes and her bandages needed changing hourly, even now, many days after her attack.
She slept. It was fitful, but she had not regained consciousness since her arrival. Even so, Allison had not left her side - the nurses said it was sweet devotion, and Allison didn't bother to correct them. Lydia was her friend and had reached out to her when she had been new in town. Seeing her like this stirred a base human sympathy in Allison. So did her realization that Lydia had no other visitors. Lydia's parents were still trying to get their divorce lawyer to draw up schedules for when each of them would see their daughter.
Allison's thoughts were mostly on another pair - her own father and his sister. Allison's aunt was lately dead, killed by the same werewolf who had attacked Lydia. It was proving impossible to untangle her adoration for her aunt from the knowledge that she had been a cold-blooded werewolf killer. Maybe her death was justified and the revenge of her heartless attacks was fair, but each time Allison's mind wandered down that road, her senses revolted and she felt nauseous. Her father's face floated nearby - not just in Allison's mind but beyond the windows of Lydia's hospital room. He didn't feign a visitor's intimacy and instead stalked the halls outside. Like his sister, he had killed werewolves and would kill again. If Lydia's wounds led to lycanthropy, then the moment she threatened human life, Chris Argent was ready to execute her. Unlike his sister, he was waiting for provocation, willing to give her a chance. At least that's what he had told Allison, but she was skeptical after being lied to so much. This was the real reason Allison sat by the bed, day and night; even if Lydia was a real bitch, Allison couldn't stand anymore bloodshed.
