Forty-eight hours of watching my daughter sleep felt like drowning in slow motion.
Luna's bedroom at the Academy looked peaceful—afternoon sun streaming through windows, her stuffed unicorn tucked beside her, monitors beeping steady rhythms that Dr. Morrison assured me meant everything was fine. But fine wasn't the same as awake. Fine wasn't the same as my six-year-old daughter opening her eyes and being herself again instead of this too-still figure who'd donated too much blood to save people I didn't know.
Hunter's precision meant tracking details. Luna's respiration: twelve breaths per minute, perfectly regular. Heart rate: sixty-two beats per minute, strong and steady. Blood pressure: 95/60, low but acceptable given the circumstances. IV fluids running at calculated rates to restore what she'd given away.
