Billy lay in bed, dark hair tangled on the pillow, face matching the white bed sheets. His eyes were closed and she stared at the burn twisting his left cheek like a red crumpled hanky. Not too bad, about the size of a coaster. His hand, though—with three missing fingers, he would never fly again. And his cheekbones were sharp, eyes ringed in black. What had Malta done to him? “Billy.” His eyes twitched open and he looked at her with his familiar blue stare, lips twisting up in a smile. “Not too afraid to come?” he said. “Of course not.” She leaned down to kiss the patch of clear skin on his damaged face. “You’re going to be fine, they’re transferring you to Grinstead Hospital. I met the specialist who is going to treat you. He’s not bothered about your face, says it will heal, but he wants to do grafts on your hand so you can use it again.” Billy glanced at the twisted claw on the blanket. “They won’t take me back. I’m out.” “Yes.” She kissed him again.
