He gave me a quick nod. “Good work.”
They took over—oxygen, bagging, monitors—moving with that precise, practiced confidence that makes you believe in systems again.
I stumbled back, shaking.
They lifted the man onto a stretcher. His eyes fluttered open. He looked straight at me, like he was trying to hold onto something.
He rasped, “Marker.”
I leaned closer. “What?”
He grabbed my wrist. “Your name. Write it. So I don’t forget.”
Someone handed me a marker.
I wrote on the inside of his wrist:
BRIAR.
He stared at it like it was a lifeline.
Then the ambulance doors closed.
I walked home like I was underwater.
I got into the shower and cried until my throat hurt.
Not just because of Jace.
But because I was 28 and still fighting for something I wanted.
Because people had stood there watching someone die—and worried about germs.
The next morning, someone knocked on my door.
Not gently. Not casually. Like they meant it.
When I opened it, I froze.
A black limo sat at the curb like a glitch in reality.
And standing there—clean, composed—was the man from the alley.
He smiled. “You’re the woman who saved my life yesterday, right?”
I stared. “Either I hit my head, or you’re about to sell me something.”
He let out a quiet laugh. “Fair. I’m Murray.”
I didn’t take his hand. “Murray from the dumpster.”
He winced. “Yes.”
“Why are you here?”
“Can I explain? And if you still tell me to get lost, I will.”
He didn’t step closer.
