Rafferty sat in a chair next to Trevor's bed, her hands dug into her thighs, staring at her Jack's face. Other than the occasional rise of his chest, and the subsequent raspy exhale, there was no movement.

There was an untouched sandwich on a plate nearby. Sheridan had brought it in a few hours ago. She had also felt Trevor's pulse, and told Rafferty that it was strong, and that that was good. Rafferty thought Sheridan was trying as hard as she could to sound authoritative.

Rafferty had driven back to the Abbey without stopping, her heart in her throat the entire ride. Only when she approached the Shack had she turned Trevor's bike and braked, skidding to a halt just a few feet in front of a very surprised Harriet.

She had opened her mouth to ask about Trevor, but Rafferty could tell just by the look on Harriet's face that there was news, and that it was bad.

"Is he dead?" she had asked instead, and when Harriet had managed a sad little shake of the head, Rafferty had actually laughed.

Of course, she hadn't known that the truth was nearly as bad.

Gus said that Trevor might be bleeding in his brain, but that there was no way they could really know for sure. He said that Trevor would probably wake up soon, or he would never wake up at all.

Trevor had been brought in by a father and daughter, tucked in the back of their truck. Sheridan said the truck was loaded with fishing equipment. They wouldn't say where they found him, or how they knew to bring him to the Abbey. They wouldn't say much of anything. Sheridan said that if she'd been the one on duty when they showed up, she would have gotten some answers.

They had carried Trevor up to his room. The doctors were forcing water down his throat, and trying to keep him cool. So far, there had been no response.

It had been six days.

There had been a lot of questions, and Rafferty had answered them, sitting in this chair. But the Rafferty who answered the questions seemed like she was very far away, or maybe in another room. Her real focus was on her stupid, smug, hectoring, petulant Jack, who had to wake up because she needed him.

Rafferty had a lot of time to think, so she thought about a lot of things.

She thought about her mother, and the two of them riding out wicked storms in the Breaks, certain that nothing could be scarier than the powerful wind and rain that shook the little house like it was angry with them.

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She thought about meeting Trevor for the first time, and how the first thing he'd ever said to her was that her right boot was untied. She thought about Katrin. And Seth. And Colin's missing finger.

She tried to think about kissing Vincent, and landing on Park Place, and that sweet moment when you knew you'd hit a perfect jump.

She thought about a giant one-eyed bear, and a shield that stole the Blue, and a turquoise-haired monster so full of rage that it hurt when you touched it.

She thought about Rachel, a freckled C Hall Hunter that had been Rafferty's first sparring partner, so many years ago. Nearly every fight still started with Rafferty hearing Rachel's voice telling her on your toes, be patient Rachel, who had left on what should have been a routine Class 2 takeout with the rest of her hall, and come back in several large, wet pieces. Rafferty had watched them set the pieces on fire. Rachel was the first young person Rafferty had ever known who died. Rafferty realized, for the first time in a way, that that list would only continue to grow, and that the names on that list would get harder and harder to bear.

But mostly her thoughts drifted back to that big Class Four. Her Class Four. Until very recently, Rafferty would have said that taking it down had counted as one of the very best days of her life.

Now, she understood that everything that was happening now was happening because of that day.

If she had waited for Trevor, and secured backup, like she was supposed to, then at least some of them would have stuck around to oversee cleanup. At a minimum, they would have made sure that the scavengers didn't make off with anything truly dangerous. It was protocol.

Had that happened, then Alex wouldn't have taken whatever it was that he took from that God. Whatever it was that gave Alex with Malice the power to obliterate entire buildings and rival thugs. Blaspheme had said that it looked like a Thunderstrike, and now Rafferty knew that she'd been exactly right.

If Alex never had that power, not only would everyone be safer, but she would never had been mixed up with him, and he would never have done whatever he had done to Trevor.

And if she'd never taken down such a God by herself- if its head weren't perched upon the top of this very building, then Katrin would never have taken an interest.

And Katrin would still be alive.

Rafferty knew that if she said all of this to anyone, they would tell her that none of it was her fault. But she also knew that actions had consequences. Hers had been the action. The consequences had mostly been suffered by others.

That thought made Rafferty want to howl out loud, but she kept it inside, fearful that Trevor might be able to hear her, and that somehow it would make things worse. Instead she sobbed silently, laid her head on his chest, and listened to his heartbeat.

She wanted to make a deal. She wanted to offer her services to the Universe, now and forever, if Trevor could just wake up, and this not be her fault. But Rafferty knew, from previous attempts, that Whatever Was Listening was in no mood for deals.

It had long ago spun its wheel, made its choice, and was perfectly content to see things through. Rafferty, it seemed, had nothing it wanted.

So she took the wet rag off of Trevor's head, wrung it out, and dipped it into a jug of cool water. Rafferty replaced the rag on his forehead, stroked his arm lightly. Small acts they were, but they were all she had.

Trevor's chest rose and fell.

Rose and fell.

Rose and fell.