Charlie Swan stared at the limp body splayed on his couch. Her dark, wet hair spread across her face like webbing, highlighting her pale skin in chunks. Her lips regained their color in private spurts, almost as if her body refused to reveal its strength to others. Her arm had healed the same—always a little better than the last time he looked. Always a little better than it should have been.

He stepped away from the couch in favor of grabbing the phone off its receiver, his fingers quick but heavy against the dial pad.

"Hey, Bella!" she chirped. He couldn't remember the last time she had sounded so happy. "Why aren't you using your phone? Don't tell me you've used up all your minutes on that boy?" she giggled.

"Renee, it's me."

"Charlie." The sugary tone of her voice had dropped to the clinical one he had grown used to. "You need another batch, already?"

"No, listen—there's, there's been an incident." He took a deep breath. "Bella's boyfriend broke up with her."

"Shit."

"It took hours to find her." He glanced back at the couch, but couldn't see her over the back. "She's unresponsive. The doctor wanted to prescribe her something, but I got him to back off."

"Don't let her take anything else," she snapped.

"I know that," he ground out. "What about...?"

"Maintain the dose."

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not. But who knows what will happen if she stops now. In her current state..."

"This is Bella we're talking about." He glanced at the couch again, still unable to see her over the back.

"And how much do you think she loved that boy?" Her voice had lowered, but he could hear the steel beneath it.

He rubbed his face, seeming to shrink where he stood.

"Tell me you still have the gun."

"I have it." His grip on the phone tightened. "But I'm not going to use it."

"Good." He could hear the telltale rustling from her end.

"You hear me?"

"I'm on my way." He listened to the soft click of her phone and restrained himself from slamming his own.