LISA
Kellan looks more tired than I've ever seen him. Aside from a drug-induced nap of about forty-five minutes, he hasn't slept since returning from the ambush, and I heard—from the others—he didn't sleep much before then, either.
The hospital chair digs into my back as I shift position for the tenth time in as many minutes. Kellan's face is a stoic mask, but he's perspiring hard.
He might be able to pretend he's fine, but sweat doesn't lie.
The real problem, though, is… he's being strangely distant.
Doesn't really want me around.
Even told me to leave earlier. Not with a raised voice or a nasty tone, but basically said it's better for me to help out than hover over him. Aren't I supposed to hover?
