When I wake up, I feel the air has been knocked out of me.

There's a splitting pain in my head as I suck oxygen through my nose in one hard go. My hands clench and a sting goes through the top of my hand. I look down and see an IV stuck under my skin. I shiver and look away towards the ceiling, the harsh glow of the light burning my eyes.

I wait for what feels like a couple of minutes before the door opens and a woman walks in. She gives me a short, quick smile when she reaches the side of my bed and looks over a few things.

"Hello, Francesca," she says. "I'm Doctor Han, I've been overseeing your recovery for the last twenty-four hours."

"I've been out a day?" I ask, shifting on the bed, wanting to be upright.

"Yes, you lost a substantial amount of blood from the bullet wound."

My hand immediately goes to the side of my stomach, resting lightly on top of the covers. I go back to the night, the darkened room, the tight grip on my arm from behind and then the spray of blood—red, everywhere.

"Francesca," Doctor Han says softly and I look up at her, startled. "Is everything okay?"

I blink at her for a moment because no, everything is not okay. I can't stop seeing red. I can't stop hearing the thump of bodies hitting the floor. I look down at my lap and nod my head.

"Everything's fine," I murmur.

My mind screams liar.

"The police will be here in a few minutes. After talking to them you need to continue resting so that wound heals up nicely," Doctor Han says and pats the top of my hand. "Hang in there, you'll be out before you know it."

"Thanks," I croak, my voice rough.

I want to ask if my dad's waiting outside, if Tyler got out okay, if Carl is locked away. But I can't, so instead I close my mouth and settle further into the pillow, wishing for the beeping to stop.

It only takes a minute after Doctor Han is gone for Detective Franks to come walking through the door. He stops at the foot of my bed and crosses his arms over his chest.

"Is Tyler getting charged with anything?" I ask.

Detective Franks shakes his head. "We're dismissing any charges against Tyler in exchange for the evidence he provided against Carl. He'll be fine."

"You're not a very honest cop, are you?" I ask.

"Never said I was." Franks smiles. "But if you had an honest cop, Tyler would probably be locked up and Carl would still be out there, running his mess of a fighting ring. You needed me."

"And you needed Tyler," I say.

"Yes," he admits. "I did. Now we have all the evidence we need. Carl will be behind bars for a long time, don't worry."

"Thank you," I say after a moment of silence.

Franks puts his hands in his pockets and tilts his head forward. "Hope you recover well."

He turns around and the door clicks shut behind him.

Everything should be fine now. There's nothing to worry about anymore. Things are where we wanted them to be.

Tyler is free.

But I feel caged.

***

My dad was there.

Every single day.

And when the hospital releases me, it's his arm that I cling to as we walk to the car. My grip is tight, but his is even tighter as he hooks his arm around my shoulder, keeping me as close as he can.

We don't say anything. We don't speak as we drive home. We don't even look at each other as we sit down on the couch and switch the television on as if nothing happened. But my dad's arm doesn't leave my shoulder.

And I feel him shake as he kisses the top of my head, rubbing my arm.

"I don't want to lose you, too," he whispers and my throat closes up.

I drop my head to his shoulder and hug him back, the television playing loudly in the background as usual. I could almost convince myself that nothing actually did happen. But it did. And everything is still red.

"I love you," I mumble against my dad's shirt and he sighs deeply.

"Not as much as I love you."

Usually I would try and argue that. But sitting here, an emotional mess next to my even bigger mess of a dad, I don't have it in me. Instead I grip his hand and don't let go.

***

Tyler has a busted-up face, cracked ribs and a limp, yet he still grins at me as he walks up the driveway.

His dark hair is a crazy mess upon his head but I smile and lightly hug him, careful of his ribs. Tyler cups my cheek and kisses the side of my head.

"God, I feel like I haven't seen you in weeks," he says. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too," I say and run my hand over his knuckles that are scabbed over.

"When I saw you like that . . . " Tyler says quietly.

I gulp, remembering the gunshots, the pain, all the red.

"I know," I whisper. "But we're fine now."

Tyler nods, pressing his forehead to mine. "We're fine."

We hop into his red truck and hit the road, driving for a while as the radio plays softly in the background. We pass through the town, taking in the people, the fields, the street signs. For a moment, I remember that it isn't long until senior year is over. That I actually have to do something soon. And with my dad and Tyler, I haven't even applied to college.

To think, I had been so upset over my dad spending my college fund . . . and then I didn't even bother applying.

I close my eyes and just focus on the rumble of the car for a few minutes before we turn off and drive through a gateway. I look out the window and my eyes roam over all the headstones I've seen before—the one that always has the red roses; the tall, marble one that always has yellow and orange flowers; and the smaller, stone one that has a fresh ring of daisies before it whenever they're in season.

Tyler pulls the car to a stop and we both get out slowly, cautious of our injuries. I take the bouquet of flowers that were on my lap with me and begin to walk along the little path that goes further into the graveyard.

Tyler comes up beside me and our hands touch as they hang by our sides.

"Thanks for letting me come with you," Tyler says. "I know you usually come here alone."

I shrug. "I didn't want to be here alone this time."

Tyler nods and I look down at the purple, pink and yellow flowers in my arms. Mom was always fond of bright colors.

"Did everything with the detective go okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," Tyler says as we walk. "It went easier than I thought. I don't know what happens afterwards though, they just told me to leave it to them and not mention it to anyone."

"It could have gone wrong," I say.

Tyler sighs. "Yes, it could have gone very wrong."

"That was a big risk," I point out and turn off from the path, walking along the grass.

Tyler falls a step behind and I hear him sigh again. "I had to take it."

I smile tightly. "I know."

I slow down as I come up to the familiar tree and then stop in front of her gravestone. It's an average-sized one made of stone, the top forming a semi-circle. I kneel down and place the flowers in front of the gravestone. I look up and stare at my mom's name, forever engraved on a slab of stone.

"I felt helpless," I say, still kneeling. "When you were in there and I was standing to the side . . . there was nothing I could do. You were getting beaten up and all I did was stand there and watch until it was my turn. The last time I felt that weak was when I watched my mom die."

I hear the crunching of footsteps coming closer.

"You weren't weak," Tyler says.

"I hated that feeling," I say. "The day my mom died and the day you nearly died. I couldn't do anything." I clench my hand into a fist. "It clung to me, clawing at me. I needed to do something, but I just stood there."

Hot tears burn my eyes and my mom's name blurs over.

I turn my head back towards Tyler.

"I never want to feel that helpless again," I say through gritted teeth. "Ever."

Tyler kneels down beside me as the tears fall down my cheeks in hot, heavy drops. His hand rubs the back of my neck and he brings my head to the crook of his neck.

"You won't," he whispers. "You'll never feel like that again."