Inside, Anora sat in a padded seat the elder of the two EMTs nodded to. Once everything was quickly settled, the younger banged on the front of the ambulance, letting the driver know they were all set, then the two set to work, the younger muttering something Anora did not quite catch.
	Movement rushed around the ambulance, both inside and out, in a blur. Anora clutched her backpack to her chest, hardly breathing as she watched the EMTs work. She inhaled through her nose at the sight of his scarred chest, scars that went beyond just being hit by a car. But worse was the state of his limbs. She bit her lower lip and looked away, listening to the monitors’ warnings about his poor vitals.
	[i]Be okay, be okay![/i] she pleaded silently. The phrase repeated in her head in a loop.
	If only there had been something she could do, some healing aspect to her powers she could have extended to him. Instead, she could only watch and listen. Her brows furrowed as the monitors’ frantic beeping and humming began to slow. Not by much, but enough for a small hope to bud in Anora. 
	She looked up just as the younger EMT, Phill, dropped a blood-stained revolver into a bin. She blinked at it in surprise.
	[i]W-who [u]is[/u] this guy?[/i] she wondered, breaking her hopeful mantra. She glanced once more to his chest covered with crimson, ink, and healed wounds, trying to ignore the state of the rest of him.
	Phil reached to grab an instrument from a cabinet, blocking her view, and Anora looked away once more.
	 The minutes it took to get to the hospital felt far longer, but at last, she felt the ambulance come to a stop. She looked up at the sound of the doors unlatching, and stared for a short moment at the staff gathered there. 
	Anora did not wait to be told twice to get out. She stood, one of the few chains draped across her black jeans momentarily snagging the edge of the seat she had been sitting on, and hurried out of the way. 
	She slung her backpack over a shoulder once more, gripping the strap tightly as the man was transferred for a second time.
	Once he was safely loaded, she hurried after the nurses carting him away, refusing to break her promise until they made her stop to wait in a waiting room just outside the ER. Running a hand through her long black hair, she stood there for a long moment after the nurses and doctors had disappeared inside. A receptionist finally bade her to sit down—or, at the very least, move away from the double doors.
	Swallowing hard, Anora sat in one of the stiff, pleather chairs, once more holding her bag in her hands. She stared at the tattoo-style skull she had painted on its front, its white grin standing out against the black fabric. The dried, flaking crimson still dusting her hand caught her attention. She removed it from the bag, staring it it as she flexed her fingers.
	Blood. [i]His[/i] blood. Blood she had spilled.
	The knot in her stomach tied a couple more loops, the image of him on the sidewalk burned into her head. It overlapped with his twisted form in the ambulance. 
	Unsure if she would be sick, she quickly located the sign for the restrooms and half-ran to the nearest one. If he died, she did not know if she could live with herself.
	Thankful the bathroom was a single-seater, she locked the door, dropped her backpack to the floor, and braced herself over the sink. She took a few deep breaths, trying to convince herself that the man would be okay, and that she would not throw up. Somehow, against all odds, it had looked like he had been [i]improving[/i] on the way there. Though, with the amount she knew in the field of medical studies, she could be completely wrong.
	She took another breath. With a trembling hand, she turned on the water of the faucet. Avoiding looking in the mirror, she let the water get warm. She quickly washed the red from her hand, and did her best to clean up the dark stain at the knee of her jeans. But no matter how clean she managed to make it, it felt like it was still there. 
	She splashed some water on her face, wishing she could wash the afternoon away. She exhaled slowly, then dried her face, a few beads of water dripping from the front of the bleached tips of her hair.
	Doing her best to calm herself, though to little avail, she tugged down the hem of her black t-shirt, and adjusted the hoodie she kept tied around her waist. With another shaky exhale, she returned to her backpack. Instead of bending over to pick it up, she simply opened her hand as if ready to grab it. In the blink of an eye, purple mist speckled with gold formed at her palm, curled around her backpack, and, like a rope, pulled the backpack’s strap into her hand.
	Back in the waiting room, the minutes ticked by in an eternity. Every time she glanced at the clock, only seconds had passed, but she swore it had been hours. All thoughts of food had left her mind. Not that she could have kept it down, anyway. Perhaps it was a good thing she had not eaten that morning.
	Inevitably, the police came in to question her. At first, she was afraid they would arrest her, that she would not get the chance to make sure the man was okay for herself, but, miraculously, they did not. Instead, they got her statement and information, checked that she was not drunk, and told her to not leave town. There would be consequences, of course—her car had already been impounded, and the possibility of a revoked license was not off the table, depending on if her story checked out or not—but that was the least of her concerns. All that mattered was they let her stay.
	The police’s presence did nothing to make the time pass. For all she knew, the man was on his deathbed, and she did not even know so much as his name.
	She tried to distract herself, pulling her favorite pen from her pocket and going back over the now faded lines of some intricate Celtic knotwork on her left hand. But even drawing did not have its usual calming effects.
	At last, the knot in her stomach turned into more of a hunger. Hesitantly, she stood, ready to hunt down a vending machine. Before she could decide where to start looking or who to ask, a doctor entered the lobby. She watched him, holding her breath as she had every time anyone had exited the ER.
	The doctor’s overworked gaze swept over the couple others waiting. Recognition entered his eyes when it settled on her. 
	[i]Finally![/i] Fearing the worst, she gathered her backpack and stepped toward the doctor.
	She felt herself nearly melt at the first words that left the doctor’s mouth. He was [i]fine.[/i] Caught up in her relief, she nearly missed the rest of what he had to say.
	“Wait.” Her brows furrowed. “He’s… being discharged? [i]Today?[/i]” She gawked at the doctor. “How’s that even…” she shook her head. “Thanks,” she muttered.
	Not waiting for a response, she rushed off to find a room marked with an ‘8,’ properly shouldering her backpack as she went.
	In her haste, she accidentally rushed passed the room. Catching her mistake, she back-paddled, the heels of her tall, platform boots skidding on the tiled floor and body twisting awkwardly as she hurried back to the room.
	She heard his voice before she had time to get a good look at him. For a moment, she could only stare, his question going unanswered.
	No casts. No IVs. Besides a couple scrapes and looking a bit disheveled, he looked hardly worse for wear. She was no medical professional, but she knew enough to know that [i]that[/i] was far from normal. As glad as she was to have an image of him in one piece and not coated in red, he should have been dead. Yet there he was, sitting up, arms crossed over his chest as if it was just another day that ended in a Y.
	Then there were his eyes. Even half-closed, as if somewhere between awake and asleep, they seemed to glow from the inside. To top it off, they were [i]pink.[/i] She had never seen anyone with pink eyes before. At least, not while she was awake.
	Realizing she still needed to answer his question, she took a deep breath, not daring to go further than the doorway. She had already hit the man. She did not need to add imposing on him to that list.
	“Anora,” she answered uncertainty. She searched his face for any signs of anger at what she had done. She licked her lips and swallowed at the hatred she practically felt emanating from his stare. “Anora Feldington,” she continued quietly, glancing to the floor. “Most just call me Nora.” She inhaled through her nose and took a tentative step further inside. Despite her fear of how he would take her apology, she dared raise her violet gaze, but her eyes did not quite meet his. “I-I’m so sorry. I… I didn’t see you. On the road.”
	She eyed him suspiciously, warily. To be in as good condition as he was now, either this man had someone up above watching out for him, or he had some kind of magic up his sleeves. There was no way she could have imagined the damage she had done to him.
	She shifted uncomfortably beneath his stare. “How… how are you…”
	She was unsure if she wanted to ask how he was feeling, or how he was alive. Or even if she [i]should,[/i] given the circumstances. There was not exactly an etiquette book about how to interact with someone you just ran over. Instead, she let the question hang unfinished between them, and gripped her backpack straps tightly, expecting the worst.