I stood frozen in the middle of the room.

Under the blanket, I saw Ethan’s hand move.

His fingers gripped the edge of the mattress.

He opened his eyes, and they burned with anger.

“We have nine hours,” he whispered.

The phone in my pocket vibrated again.

I pulled the phone from my pocket.

The screen glowed in the dim light of the recovery room, casting a pale blue light across Ethan’s face.

It was a text from my father.

*Sarah, please tell me you signed. The bank called again. They are freezing the remaining accounts.*

I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the glass.

Ethan’s fingers tightened around my wrist, pulling my attention back to him.

His grip was surprisingly firm for a man who had spent nine months in a hospital bed.

“Who is it?” he asked.

His voice was rough, like gravel scraping against concrete.

“My father,” I whispered. “He is desperate.”

Ethan let go of my wrist, his hand falling back onto the mattress with a soft rustle of sheets.

“He should be,” Ethan said. “Jason has been feeding him false hope to keep him compliant.”