Only Human
…
"He's on the warpath."
It was only a text, muses Eve, as she observes with interest from her post at the central tables of the squad room, but it was apt. Sadly, it seems, her warning didn't reach its recipient in time, and Grace, who from the looks of things really could have done with returning to the CCU's concrete underground lair forewarned and thus forearmed, is instead left caught bearing the full brunt of their fearless leader's formidable, blistering temper as it flares up towards the heavens once again.
Boyd is livid, that much Eve can easily tell, but what with remains unclear. Something, she surmises, to do with the telephone call he was engaged with just before Grace appeared between the utilitarian swinging doors carrying several good-sized folders and with her heavy winter coat still buttoned up against the arctic blast of the unseasonably late chill that has swept in across the capital in recent days. The call involved a lot of shouting interspersed with long silences, presumably as the poor soul on the other end attempted to justify their actions to the raging detective superintendent, and ended abruptly once Grace arrived, the handset crashing back down onto the cradle with enough force to make Eve wince from all the way across the room.
It's been like this all week so far, liberally combined with moments of frenzied silence as Boyd rushes from one thing to another, the rest of the team standing back in open-mouthed bewilderment at the chaotic, choppy activity and the occasional barked, impatient orders that are as illogical as chocolate teapots, yet somehow seem to lead to startlingly positive results.
Grace though… Grace doesn't even make it to her desk before the chaos and the bellowing engulfs her. She looks, thinks Eve, like she needs a large, hot mug of strong tea, a couple of chocolate biscuits and a good half an hour to sit down and simply breathe. She looks exhausted.
It's no wonder, either, given that she's been spent the last three and a half days by herself trekking to Sheffield, Derby, Gloucester, Bath and Portsmouth to talk to and interview the five members of Alice Hall's friendship group and university flat that were somehow inexplicably ignored in the aftermath of her sudden disappearance twenty-two years ago.
"What took you so long?" Boyd's out of his office and towering over Grace before she can even put her stack of folders down and unhook her bag strap from her shoulder.
Even Grace looks surprised, and a touch thrown off balance by the abrupt greeting. "Traffic," she replies, her voice calm and steady, though her expression is anything but. The hurt that burns there for just a moment cuts at Eve, makes her fume on Grace's behalf. For Boyd to leap on her in such an aggressive way the moment she walks back in the door is outrageously out of order, she thinks reproachfully, not bothering to hide the scowl that's directed his way.
"It's been more than three days, for God's sake," he growls. "How much bloody time do you need to interview five women?"
The look in Grace's eyes is flat, flinty. Icy. "As long as it takes, Boyd."
Eve doesn't miss the inflection on his name. Feels a shiver track down her spine at the anger wrapped up in it, the warning exuding from the tiny woman staring up at the tall, imposing man, who is glaring irritably down at her.
Something is wrong between them. Very wrong.
Something that goes far beyond this particular moment.
That their relationship, whatever it is, is unpredictable, Eve has observed since her very first day with the CCU, but this is something else entirely. Something has changed recently, and not for the better. The tension between them has been mounting for a while now, erupting and spilling over more and more frequently in the last few weeks.
Boyd's already short temper has shortened, and not just with Grace. He's seems more driven than ever, pushing all of them to the limit. He's antagonistic, and she's rising to it, somehow losing the ability to ignore him and take it all in her stride.
Leaving Stella with her head down over her keyboard, Eve drifts unobtrusively over to the kettle, flicking in the switch and dropping a teabag into Grace's mug, all while listening to the brewing argument behind her.
"Have you got your expenses recorded?" he demands, veering away from the reason she's been absent since first thing Monday morning.
"What do you think?" is the weary response.
Boyd grabs an open file from Spencer's desk where Eve has been working, using her geographical analysis of vegetation samples to help Stella plot potential movements of their thus-far non-existent suspect on a map. "I think that the standard of paperwork in this place has become a complete and utter shambles."
Possibly slightly true, but irrelevant.
Water boils, bubbles into the cup. Tea bleeds from the bag, darkening the liquid. Eve watches, sighs as a particularly sharp barb flies from their leader's lips, another crack visibly forming in Grace's armour, her face falling, eyes lowering.
Milk lightens the colour, half a teaspoon of sugar sweetens the taste a little. Probably not enough. Maybe it'll help anyway, she hopes.
"Here, Grace, have a cup of tea," she interrupts, brazenly stepping into the battle zone, eyes warning Boyd to back off. It's a risky strategy, but as she adds, "Let me take your coat and bag," his eyes widen as he realises. "Have you had lunch?" asks Eve, taking control of the heavy handbag.
Grace shakes her head. "No, I drove straight through."
"Eat," commands Boyd. "Drink. We'll have a team meeting in half an hour." And then his office door slams. No one says anything about the fact that the blinds are already closed.
…
Sneaking outside for some much needed fresh air as well as the obligatory cigarette, Eve is somehow not surprised to find Grace sitting by herself on the lone, forlorn bench propped against the utilitarian brick wall of the gloomy square courtyard tucked away at the back of the building that hosts the CCU in its basement space, despite never having seen her there before.
There is little light that passes down into the quiet, out of the way enclave, but there is air that is bitingly fresh, and there is, though Eve has never been sure how or why, a thin, rectangular planter filled with a handful of small, hardy plants that offer a glimmer of green life within the confines of the brick and concrete.
Pausing in the tiny gap between the two walls that grants access to the space, which is no more than eleven or twelve feet square, she watches, struck by the defeat she can see in her friend. And defeat it clearly is.
It's not something she would have ever associated with the fiery, intelligent, witty woman she warmed to immediately upon her arrival here, and has slowly been growing ever-closer to, but it's there. It's definitely there. Head resting back against the wall, body slumped into the surprising comfort of the wooden slats, Grace's eyes are closed, her hands clasped tightly together in her lap, knuckles whiter than even the chill in the air ought to be causing.
It's so out of character that Eve is immediately concerned. What, she wonders, caused it? She has an idea, of course, and it is firmly centred on the equally fiery, but far less controlled man back inside the building who currently appears to be doing his best to drive the remaining members of his staff insane.
Keeping her voice soft so as to not startle, Eve calls out a gentle query. "Grace?"
Despite her best intentions, the other woman does start a little, eyes opening as she looks around quickly.
"Oh, Eve. I was just looking for a few minutes peace and quiet. This was the only place I could think of." Quick. Defensive, too, but in a polite way.
"I can come back later," Eve offers, awkwardly. She can see with ease that she's caught Grace in a vulnerable moment, wonders just how much she's intruding.
"No, no. Stay. I could use some sane company." Grace pats the bench beside her, and obediently Eve sits, surreptitiously trying to analyse her friend out of the corner of her eye.
"I'm fine."
Caught. But...
"We both know that's not true," Eve counters, fearlessly.
Grace sighs, seems to fold in on herself, hands coming up to cover her face for a few moments. Slender shoulders move as she breathes, emotion fighting against a front of enforced composure.
Eve waits, allows her time. Respect, solidarity. Friendship.
Then, eventually, "What's going on, Grace?"
"I'm tired. It's been a long few days. A lot of miles; lots of emotions, memories, from the women."
Eve believes her. "I still don't think you should have gone alone."
Those slender shoulders shrug. "Who else is there? With Spence ill we're so short-handed at the moment."
Eve doesn't say what she's really thinking. That for the first time since she's known him Boyd didn't jump at the chance to get out of the office and go with her. "True. But that's not what's bothering you."
Silence falls between them, the only sound the breeze rattling a single, dried leaf against the flower pot.
"I can drop it," Eve finally volunteers, wondering if she's overstepped the mark. Something tells her she hasn't, though. "But you look like you need to talk and you don't know who to talk to."
Grace sighs again, a long heavy exhale loaded with meaning and emotion. "I don't even know where to start," she replies.
She really doesn't, and it's so obvious. Just a little heart-breaking, too, for Grace is the pillar of strength in their little team of misfits. Grace is the one who always knows why and how and when, and what to do and say.
Perhaps it's time to be blunt, thinks Eve. So far in their friendship they have skirted the subject, never referring to anything in more than even the vaguest of terms. "What's going on with you and Boyd?"
"Nothing," says Grace, and there's no way for Eve to miss the catch in her voice. The incredible sadness in her tone. "It ended."
The news is... not exactly shocking, but not what she was expecting. Not at all.
"Ended..." echoes Eve, suddenly at a loss, despite her best intentions. She wonders when it started.
"It had been building," admits Grace heavily, "but neither of us... wanted it."
"What do you mean?" Equal parts curious, saddened, and surprised.
There is a long, reflective pause. "It wasn't working. Something... wasn't right. Hadn't been for a while."
"How so?"
Another long pause. Grace rubs her face, staring at the ground miserably. "He won't... can't... talk. And I can't reach him. Not when he puts up so many walls. I couldn't keep silent, and he didn't want to listen. Everything became too difficult, another barrier we couldn't cross."
It's an accurate representation of both, thinks Eve, but it surprises her nonetheless. Boyd may be loud and aggressive, he may be impulsive and occasionally near-childish in his relentless pursuit of all the things that matter to him, but he's a good leader and observing him as she has, Eve can see the hints of the real man behind the stress of the job. The pain hidden in the shadows, the depth with which he genuinely cares; the quieter, gentler soul who exists behind the brash role of a leader fighting impossibly tough battles all by himself. He's not the kind of person to let difficult circumstances get in the way of those things he genuinely cares about and underneath it all it's so obvious that he really, genuinely cares about Grace.
"So all this anger, this aggression..." she muses.
"It's pain," Grace confirms. "He doesn't know how to deal with it, so he just keeps ploughing forwards. He deflects pain with more work, and when he gets frustrated he lashes out, gets angry. He's never learned to control his temper – it always gets the better of him."
"Do you want to talk about what happened?" Eve ventures, unsure if she should ask.
Grace presses her lips together, looking as though she's fighting a fierce internal battle. "I don't know how it started," she says at last. "But it's all related to grief and anger that he's never dealt with. I think it all began creeping back in on him, right as the powers that be really started breathing down his neck over the Howard case last month, and..."
She trails off, falls silent. Wrings her hands, determined to hold it together. The grief that Eve can feel, though… the sadness that emanates from her…
"Cracks started appearing, cracks that turned into great divides between us. I wanted to help him, I tried so hard to help him, but he didn't want it – hated it. Pushed me further and further away. Maybe I shouldn't have, maybe I should have left him alone to deal with it, but how could I not want to help him? Make things better for him?"
"It's human nature," agrees Eve. "It's your nature."
"But…" Grace is at a loss, eyes glimmering with unshed tears. Her shoulders shake, her hands clench tighter. "I thought I was doing the right thing. I thought… I thought we could sort it out, make it work, and then it all just imploded. We… we had to agree to go our separate ways in the end."
For a while there is nothing. Eve digests, Grace reflects. And then, "I hate it. I really hate it. I honestly thought…" she trails off, and whatever Eve was about to learn is lost as they both freeze at the sound of a door slamming in the distance, waiting with bated breath.
No one appears, nothing happens. But the thread of conversation doesn't resume.
Then, into the silence, "I miss him so much."
She can feel the raw anguish in those words. Sighs. Says softly, "I'm sure you do. I can't be easy to come to work every day, either."
Grace shakes her head, tears now swimming in her eyes, but still not tipping over. Voice so tiny it's almost lost in the hiss of the breeze, she says, "I love him, Eve." Instantly she looks horrified, appalled that she's admitted it, that the words are now out there in the open. "I'm sorry," she fumbles. "I don't know what's the matter with me. I'm just tired – it's been such a long, hard few days. Normally I wouldn't –"
"Grace," Eve interrupts gently, resting her hand on the older woman's arm. Distressed, distraught blue eyes look up at her. "You're not telling anything I hadn't already guessed."
"Really?"
"Really. I mean, I didn't know you were together – you kept that very quiet – but I could see how you felt about him. I could tell that the two of you were very close."
"Close…" It's a hollow echo, one that makes Eve shiver.
It's so strange to see Grace like this. To see the fissures in her armour, the flaws in her shell. Eve is so used to feeling strength emanate from the other woman, to knowing that with Grace around things will be okay, a level of sanity will remain in the turbulent wake of Boyd's chaotic style of management, that this is disturbing.
"How long?" she asks, and is astounded by the answer.
"Eighteen months."
The response appears to crack something inside Grace, who seems to crumble as the tears finally begin to fall. Eve catches her, holds her, feels the war of emotion flaring. The guilt, grief, sadness.
Eighteen months is long before she even joined the unit, and no one else knows, she's certain. They like their privacy, their quiet world together. Have kept their secret well. Just him and her; them.
No wonder they are in so much pain.
There's nowhere for them to turn.
The breeze blows, the sky threatens drizzle, and she stays where she is, feels the trembling, unsteady battle for control. The way her friend holds on, hugs back, tries so hard not to cry on her shoulder, tears at her.
"It's okay, you know," she soothes. "You're only human – you're allowed to feel, to be angry, to be upset. To hate him and love him. To talk about it. You don't have to be strong all the time."
It seems odd to say it – Grace is older, wiser, more experienced. Grace is the psychologist, she knows all about these things. But somehow, it seems necessary, too.
There's a heavy sniff, and they pull apart. "Really?" The sheer level of disbelief in the single word question tells her all she needs to know and more about how much of an effect this is having, how far from her usual, steady self Grace is at the moment.
"Really!" she confirms firmly. Grace searches her pockets for a tissue, but doesn't find one and Eve does the same, shaking her head at the negative result.
"What will you do?" she asks, both curious, and worried about the answer. "Will you leave? Find another job?"
Grace shakes her head, uses her sleeve to blot her eyes. "I can't," she says, though she elaborates no further. "I just… can't."
Eve can't profess to understand, but she's not in her friend's shoes. All she can do is lend a listening, supportive ear.
Another door slams, this one louder, closer. Voices reach the small courtyard, growing stronger, more distinct.
Grace stands, smooths her clothes. "I'm sorry," she says, "but thank you." The sincerity in her gaze tells Eve everything, draws a soft, sad smile to her lips and fuels the gentle squeeze of her hand to her friend's shoulder as she too gets to her feet, both of them heading back to work.
…
The barrage of words is getting louder and angrier, and Eve flinches as she watches Grace absorb the impact of the rage emanating from Boyd. The case is seemingly going nowhere, and the endless pages of interviews collected over the last few days are proving too much for the impatient leader who clearly wants a concise account that Grace seems unable, or unwilling, to give him.
"Stop it, Boyd," she orders curtly, as he roars his frustrations at her. "You need to hear this story from beginning to end. It's all relevant, even if it doesn't seem so."
"Then bloody get on with it," he bellows back. "We've been waiting long enough."
Grace visibly bites back her words, but her hands give the slightest of wobbles as she clutches at her papers. Eve glances over at Stella, sees the look coming back her way which has the same what-do-we-do thought in it that Eve is feeling.
How much more of this can Grace take before she falls under the pressure, wonders Eve. How much more can Boyd give before he collapses from the weight and strength of the emotions he's wrestling with, trying to control rather than settle?
Neither seems to realise the frailties of their humanity, she thinks. Neither of them seems to understand just how much they are hurting, and how much they are hurting each other, too. One of them will crack, Eve knows, can feel it in the tension around them, can see it in the hurt and anger they both exude, can hear it in the subtle subtext of brittle aggressive conversation battering the atmosphere of their working space. She half expects the concrete to crumble under the heavy strain, unable to support the weight of such pain.
It will be Grace.
The thought comes from nowhere, but she is certain. Doesn't question it.
It will be Grace.
Grace, who bites her tongue, or holds her breath when she can. Grace, who tries to maintain the peace, even when it's her own conflict she's caught up in. Grace, who smiles, though it doesn't reach her eyes; laughs, even when it is thin and forced.
Grace, who sometimes seems to give everything, yet seemingly gets almost nothing in return.
She will fall first.
Eve would put money on it.
Sadly.
She can't imagine what they were like as a couple, but instinctively knows they were very good together. Beautifully, perfectly suited. Their temperaments yin and yang, a complete balance. Harmony.
The chemistry between them is breath-taking. She was struck by it during her final interview with both, the moment they walked through the door. Amazed by how artless they were together, how seamless, how effortless. The sexual tension less obvious, but she saw it, felt it in tiny moments here and there in the months that followed, was awed and envious, yet oblivious to its fulfilment.
This though…
The hours wear past with agonising slowness as everything that works so well for them turns on them, against them. That artlessness goes against them entirely, and the wreckage is heart-breaking.
She wonders briefly if they will simply give in and walk away, but then casts that thought aside. This, whatever this is, is their reality.
Raw and exposed, this is who they both are. This is how much they both care.
This is the truth of how neither can let go, no matter what it does to them. No matter what the consequences are.
"Enough," snaps Grace, slapping her folder closed and getting to her feet. "It's gone six and I haven't been home in three days. I'm leaving."
Thank God for that, thinks Eve, knowing the psychologist's departure will signal the end of the interminable day for everyone else on the team as well. It's not a yield though, not the end. It is simply a lull in the fighting, to be resumed tomorrow. Grace needs the break. Boyd needs the break. They all do.
Grace walks into her office, Boyd on her heels, and for a moment all is quiet. Then the door slams and the shouting starts. Beside her, Eve can feel the sharp intake of breath as Stella watches the unfolding drama, hears the murmured French expletives. The words being exchanged beyond the glass may be obscured, blurred to their ears, but the fierce heat of the fight unfolding before them is entirely visible.
Boyd bearing down on Grace, his boiling frustration so, so evident as she stands resolute under the cascading barrage of it all, pushing back, fighting to hold her ground.
Neither can let go, no matter what it does to them.
"They are going to kill each other," whispers Stella, her accent more pronounced than usual. Eve has no idea what to say, what to do. This is so much worse than what Grace described earlier – she can see the brutal pain and anguish exposed in both of them, and she wonders who will crack first.
Because someone will.
They are strong, both of them. Unbelievably so, but locked in this battle as they are, one of them will crumble.
It's a terrible thought, but it's inevitable, Eve knows.
Grace breaks, and the sight of it is heart-rending. Words leave Boyd's mouth with a venom that is as visible as it is tormented, and she freezes in front of him.
Wilts.
Shears in two.
It's the only way Eve can think of describing what she's witnessing, and then Grace is moving, shoving past Boyd and heading out of her office. She's across the width of the squadroom and out through the double doors at a pace somewhere between a fast walk and a jog before anyone else can react.
Stella swears again. Stares at Grace's departing back, at Boyd, motionless and stunned, still standing in the office – her loyalty to both so visibly torn in two directions.
The doors clatter as they settle, and Eve moves, lurching forward and tripping over the chair that's suddenly entangled with her legs. There's a crash as she hits the floor, rolls out of what could have been a bad impact, and then she's up and moving towards the exit. Boyd is, too, his shout of "Grace," echoing with remnants of sound from the doors and the chair, sudden horrified concern wrapped up in his fading anger.
Eve breaks into a run as she reaches the hallway, and so does Boyd, but she's younger, fitter, faster. A daily runner, despite her nicotine addiction, she reaches the building's exit before him, tumbles out into darkness split by artificial light spilling from windows and street lamps. Shadows are everywhere, cloaking everything, and it takes a while for her locate her target.
Despite her lack of athleticism, Grace is somehow still ahead, and in the confusion of the last few moments has gained more ground on her pursuers. Across the thin width of carpark that wraps around the building, she is slipping through the electronic pedestrian gate that forms a barrier between the police and the public.
Boyd, level with Eve now, takes off again, calling out to the retreating figure ahead as Eve matches his pace, easily keeping up with him. They halt for what seems like an eternity at the gate, waiting for it to open, and for a fleeting moment Eve wonders why they are even giving chase, but then they are through and disregarding the policy of waiting for it to close securely again before running down the pavement that Grace disappeared along.
"Left," pants Eve, taking a gamble, an educated guess. She's right, and as they turn the corner Grace is pressing the button for the crossing a hundred yards ahead. The lights change, the tone sounds, and she starts to walk again, oblivious to the two running after her.
She's oblivious, too, to the motorbike that screeches around the bend ahead, blatantly ignoring the red traffic lights and swerving across the road as its back tyre skids with the destabilising speed of cornering so quickly. Lost in her own world, and visibly still upset, she moves forward quickly, lifting a hand to swipe at her eyes, presumably, thinks Eve, wiping away tears. Her heart twisting for her friend, Eve spares a second's thought for what she's going to say to Boyd after this, and then the unthinkable happens.
The bike doesn't slow, the rider instead trying to speed out of the skid. The tactic fails, and the rear wheel hits the kerb side on, bouncing away at an angle. The rider wrestles for control, skidding madly but somehow staying upright as Eve shouts a warning, hearing Boyd yell the same thing beside her. Grace looks up, turning towards the noise but she's too late. The vehicle ploughs straight into her, its tyres squealing on the tarmac as it slides sideways through the pedestrian crossing.
The rider stays in the saddle, crashing down in a tangle of limbs and leathers that comes to rest up against the safety rail guarding the pavement edge in an almighty crunch and squeal of protesting steel that seems to go on and on and on. When the ear-splitting sound clears the world appears momentarily frozen. The motorbike is a twisted heap of plastic and metal pinning its owner beneath it by one leg. The barrier is bent and deformed, caving in on itself with the force of the impact, and Grace is motionless on the ground in the middle of the road. Eve's heart lurches at the distance left between her and the older woman – it's been halved.
Running forward again – she's dimly aware that she does not remember stopping – she reaches Grace before Boyd, dropping to her knees in the road, not even thinking about the possibility of other traffic, all her attention focused on what she can do to help.
Lack of consciousness.
Airway clear, breathing relatively steady but shallow.
Superficial head injury to the left side of the scalp, bleeding a lot.
Possible serious head injury from impact with the road – pupils small but equal.
Gash to right arm, more blood.
Chest injury – ribs that feel broken under her probing hands – and a pelvic injury. The internal damage doesn't bear thinking about.
She's about to demand Boyd call for an ambulance as he stands looming over her, a giant of a man swathed in shadows, when she hears his voice on the phone, doing exactly that. Satisfied, she returns to ignoring him, concentrating instead on her assessment.
Fractures to the right tib and fib, compound fracture of the femur. Minimal blood loss.
Torn clothing, road rash.
Breathing still holding out.
For now.
Thanking her lucky stars that Grace landed on her back, Eve gently pulls the pretty grey and green scarf from its place as a fashion accessory and instead wraps it into a makeshift bandage, stemming the flow of blood from the ugly head wound. Her own scarf is sacrificed to the arm wound, staunching the heavy rush there as her hands apply steady pressure.
There's no return to consciousness, no improvement in vital signs. Only a steady worsening of respiration, and a worrying slowing of pulse.
"Why is she crying?" asks Boyd, his voice thick with emotion, as he spots the wet tracks, the glistening tears. "Surely that means she's okay?"
She wants to hit him, the anger is so intense. But the lost, wounded expression on his face as she spares the briefest of glances up at him stops her. He's genuinely distraught. Afraid. Uncertain.
Of course he is.
He loves her.
"She was crying when she ran out of the office," Eve grinds out. "Why do you think I ran after her?"
His silence says everything.
Striving for some kind of calm, some kind of kindness that she doesn't feel, she says, "I know you two have your differences, but she's still human, Boyd. She still bleeds like the rest of us."
Boyd kneels, stares. His hands are trembling as he brushes bloodied hair from Grace's eyes, tucks it behind her ear. Eve has never seen him so tender, recognises a practiced move.
How many times has he knelt beside her like this, she wonders? Touched her? Caressed her? Kissed her in the comfort of his bed or hers? Made love to her, whispered in her ear, provoked laughter, smiles, glittering, dancing blue eyes?
The rage of his words earlier echoes in her head, Grace's face falling in sadness, defeat. The slump of her shoulders in the courtyard. "I love him, Eve."
Eve looks away, conducts another assessment. Looks for changes, indications.
Definite pelvic injury, with untold internal damage. Tense, hard abdomen, unnatural movement of the hip bones.
Life-threatening.
It's starting to rain, thin, lazy droplets combining with the blood on the road beneath them. There's still no ambulance on scene, still no sirens in the distance. They keep waiting, Boyd shedding his jacket and wrapping it around Grace's still form, Eve keeping pressure on her wounds, monitoring her breathing as it worsens, her pulse as it drops. If the paramedics don't arrive very soon, she will likely be performing CPR, she knows, though with what hope, she doesn't.
This… is serious.
A blink of the eye, a few seconds…
It's unthinkable.
Beside her Boyd trembles, on the ground Grace keeps fading.
Eve looks at her, glances at him. Sees the raw, painful fragility of humanity in his tears, in her blood.
The rain picks up, the wind blows and the street light above flickers. There are lights from vehicles, the flash of blue from a patrol car setting up a cordon, and the moaning and groaning from the rider as he walks around, fighting with the officer attempting to breathalyse him.
Eve shivers, sees Boyd's tightly closed eyes, his silently moving lips. His hunched shoulders, the hand gently cradling one that is so much smaller. The harrowing defeat in his posture.
Grace's chest rises very slightly, falls again slowly. Slower than her previous breath. Even slower than the one before it.
Blood continues to bloom on the tarmac, despite Eve's efforts.
And still there is no sound of approaching help. Still they keep waiting…