“How is he?” I’m hoarse.

Benson sits next to me. He is not bruised and his stoic face that usually confounds me, now gives me comfort.

“Stable. I had to call his psychiatrist and he gave him a sedative. He’ll be out for a while. How are you?”

“I’m fine. Is he hurt?”

“No, I mostly blocked him but when I first fought him off you, I retriggered his capture flashback. In his mind, he was fighting the insurgents. But he’s not hurt.”

“Oh, thank God. Thank God.” The room sways so I keep talking. “What about you, Benson? Are you okay?”

He smiles. “It takes a lot more than that to bring me down. Don’t you worry about me.”

“Benson, thank you so much. If you hadn’t come…” I can’t finish my sentence. How would it have ended? All because of my stupid mistake.

“I’m glad I did.” He takes a deep breath. “Elisa, the doc is still here. He wants to talk to you, if you feel up to it. You went through a lot today.” Benson’s voice is gentle. But instead of calming me, it galvanizes me to action. I can help Aiden. I can do something other than sit on this couch, helpless.

“Of course! Yes. Please. Thank you, Cora.” I start running out of Cora’s door before I finish my sentence, Benson behind me. Cora throws a long cardigan over my shoulders.

As we pass by the firmly shut library doors, my knees shake.

“Where is Aiden, Benson?”

“In your bedroom.”

I don’t know where it comes from but before I know it, I stop him. His face is something like ordered confusion, if such a thing exists.

“Thank you.” Gratitude melts my frozen voice into a viscous whisper.

“For what?”

“For calling it our bedroom.”

Benson’s eyes soften until they reveal a vulnerability that must allow him to connect with his tormented boss more than their common military background can.

“If I may be allowed a personal observation, Elisa. I’ve never seen him happier than when he is with you. I think he loves you very much.” Benson looks uncomfortable. But in my empty chest, I hear my first heartbeat since the library.

I nod awkwardly, unable to find the words to respond.

Doctor Corbin is in the living room armchair, scrawling furiously on a yellow notepad. When he sees me, he stands up with a smile. He has a white, trimmed beard, no hair, hazel eyes and a tall, lean frame.

“You must be Miss Snow. I’m Victor Corbin. It’s a great pleasure to meet you.” He extends his hand.

“It’s great to meet you as well, Doctor. I wish it were under better circumstances. And please, call me Elisa. May I get you something to drink?”

Cora appears before Corbin can answer, bringing us drinks and—bless her—Baci. I sink on the couch, attacking the ice water with a thirst that doesn’t come from my body.

“Elisa, if I may, I’d like to examine you first to make sure you’re not hurt. Then we can discuss what happened.”

I want to go straight to figuring out a way to help Aiden but Corbin won’t hear it so I let him examine me. Nothing is broken but by tomorrow, I’ll have serious bruises.

At last, Corbin picks up his fountain pen and notepad. “We can take a break anytime if this gets too hard. But if you can, I’d like to hear what happened. From Benson, I gathered you had a stressful day?”

I nod, taking a deep breath, and tell him everything except Javier’s name. Corbin scribbles for a long time. I eat a Baci, unable to read the note.

“Elisa, this must have been terrifying. But you handled it with selflessness and love, and that’s all you could do. This was an accident and you shouldn’t blame yourself. Doctor’s orders.”

Corbin’s words sound like good grades but I can’t accept them. He repeats that it was not my fault but he didn’t see the terror in Aiden’s eyes when his memory catapulted him back to his torture. And I triggered it.

“Doctor, I don’t want to waste a single minute on me. Please tell me what I can do to help.”

“Very well.” He pauses and takes a deep breath. “This is part of the reason why I wanted to meet you. I’m afraid I need you if we are to help him.”

“Anything. I’ll do anything for him. What do you need?”

“I’m skirting the line of the psychotherapist privilege for his safety,” he sighs. “I need your help to get him to accept treatment for his PTSD—and not just accept it, but continue it. Last time he saw me was after he attacked his mother. But after a few sessions, the pain, his vivid memories…were too much. I cannot imagine what this second episode will do to him. But we can’t allow him to drop treatment again.”

My hands shake so violently that the water splashes out of my glass. “And you think I can convince him?”

“Yes.” His conviction fills the room.

“Why?”

“Because he’s in love. He emailed me yesterday with a brief recap of the last few years to prepare for our meeting. He said he’s doing this for you. Your name was in almost every paragraph. He has a reason to fight this time.”

How could I refuse? I’d give my life if that would heal him. “I’ll do everything I can, Doctor—until my last second here.”

I notice his shoulders sink a fraction, and I realize he cares about Aiden.

“Can you tell me your opinion on Aiden’s prognosis? He seems to think this is a life sentence.”

“As long as Aiden doesn’t want to heal, there is no hope. But if he allows it, there’s an option even for someone with his severity and memory.”

“What is it?”

“In vivo exposure therapy. It means he’d be exposed to similar traumatic situations over and over again until he becomes desensitized. It’s been highly effective with PTSD. It can work with his general symptoms but also with his startle reflex. But he’d have to endure being startled as many times as it takes—thousands—until he acclimatizes to it.”

Suddenly, I wish his mother were here. If anyone knows how this feels, it’s she.

“Is there anything else I can do to help?”

“Well, he’ll feel profoundly guilty when he wakes up and realizes what happened. Let’s wait for clues from Aiden on how to handle it.”

“How will he be when he wakes up?”

“The drug I gave him—Versed—represses memories. He won’t remember anything after the drug, but he will remember everything before. It’s hard to predict how he’ll wake up. Sometimes, men are violent. For others, it exaggerates their real traits, like they lose their inhibitions. Often, they’ll be confused and frightened. We’ll see where Aiden falls.”

We debate back and forth and settle on a plan.

“Now if you don’t have any other questions, Elisa, may I suggest you get some sleep? I can prescribe something if you wish.”

“No, I’m fine, thank you. May I see Aiden now? May I touch him?”

“Yes. Nothing will wake him until Versed wears off.”

I sprint to the bedroom—feet fast, brain slow. The door is ajar. Benson is in the chair in the corner but my eyes are riveted on the bed. I lean against the wall, my legs unable to support me at the sight.

Aiden is on his back, his hands resting on his abs. His lips are parted. His chest rises almost imperceptibly—the only sign of life. The rest of him is inert. That vibrant life force he wields is absent.

Tears spring in my eyes, and I kneel by our bed. I place my hand over his heart. He doesn’t move. But his heartbeat is thudding at its regular, vital rhythm. It brings some air to my lungs. I explore his skin with my fingers. I kiss his forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, throat, saving his lips for last. When I kiss them, his weak breath caresses my mouth.

His skin is sticky and slightly cool. I can’t allow it. I take off his clothes, vaguely aware of Benson’s unobtrusive help. We don’t talk. I soak a washcloth in warm water and wipe off Aiden’s body. I dry him off and we dress him in his favorite navy pajamas and T-shirt. I don’t want him to wake up naked and exposed or in the same clothes he wore when he attacked me. Either will make him hate himself even more. When we finish, Benson puts his hand on my shoulder.