“Oh. Sorry.” He swallowed and took a deep breath.

“If I’m making you uncomfortable—”

“Never.” He looked at her. “Never, Hannah.”

She studied him, her eyes full of uncertainty. “I thought you—I thought—” She broke off and looked away. He watched her throat jerk as she swallowed. “I thought I was going to have to give your brothers some very bad news.”

The words—the wavering emotion in her voice—hit him hard. He’d spent so many years worrying about everyone else that it was a shock to hear someone express worry over him.

He realigned everything she’d said to him since the moment he’d woken up, and everything he’d said to her.

Fine. I’ll sign whatever so I can get out of here.

He put his hands over the place where her fingers rested on his arm. He wanted to do more than that, to collapse on her shoulder, to curl up and clutch her against him, but if he fell apart now, he’d never get it together.

He ducked his head and kept his voice low. “How do my lungs sound, Doctor?”

After a breath, she rested her forehead against the side of his face. She smelled like soot and ash and sweat, but under that was something warm and sweet, like sugar cookies. When she blinked, her lashes fluttered against his cheek. “I’m not a doctor.”

“Paramedic.”

“Not yet. You know I still have another year of—”

He couldn’t take it. Michael wrapped his arms around her and crushed her against his chest. His breathing was shaky, and he didn’t trust his voice, but he held her, and she let him.

No, she held him back.

“It’s okay,” she whispered. “It’ll be okay.”

“It’s not,” he said, his voice thick. “Not even a little bit.”

Despite everything his family had gone through, they’d always had a home. He’d made sure of it. The shelves were never overflowing with food, and there’d been a year when he’d turned off cable and made the guys share one cell phone, but they’d had a roof over their heads and beds to sleep in. Always somewhere to come back to.

And now they had . . . what? The truck? The car? Considering the earthquake, he wasn’t sure they even had that much.

Then one of the demolished homes on the cul-de-sac caught his eye. They had a lot more than some of these families.

All this destruction. How much had been his fault? If these homes hadn’t collapsed, would the radio be reporting rescues instead of dead bodies?

His breath shook again. He wanted to ask how many people had been killed, and whether Hannah knew names yet.

At the same time, he was afraid to ask.

“When you two are done, I have a few questions.”

At the sound of the dry voice, Hannah pulled back quickly, and Michael let her go. He recognized the man standing behind the ambulance, and he wondered if it was a good thing or a bad thing that the county fire marshal had shown up.

“Dad!” Hannah said, for all the world sounding like a teenager caught with a boy in her room. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” He paused, then raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you?”

Michael knew he wasn’t imagining the disapproval in the man’s tone. Hannah and her father had a tense relationship. If Hannah’s mother weren’t in the picture, they probably wouldn’t speak at all. Jack Faulkner was never rude to Michael—but he wasn’t exactly patting him on the back and inviting him over to watch the game, either. The fire marshal had arrested Gabriel and charged him with arson six weeks ago. Once the real arsonist was behind bars, Jack had been civil to Michael. Not quite friendly, but not cold.

Suspicious? Michael had no idea. Hannah said her father treated everyone like a potential criminal—including her.

But to his surprise, when Jack turned steely grey eyes his way, there was compassion there. “How are you doing, Mike? You okay?”

The question, the casual concern, threw him off. Michael’s own parents had always been warm, their home always open to others—to their detriment—and Hannah’s father was the opposite of that. They’d sat across a table for dinner on Hannah’s birthday and talked business and sports. Easy topics, nothing personal.

That night felt like a year ago.

But maybe this was the real Jack Faulkner. Maybe a crisis brought out the dad in him, breaking down the awkward barriers.

Michael nodded and had to clear his throat. “I’m all right.”

“What about your brothers? Are they holding up?”

Michael nodded. He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. Sweat and grit. Sand, soot, whatever. He’d kill for a shower. A hot one. “More or less.”

“You have somewhere to go?”

For an instant, the question didn’t make sense. Why would he go anywhere?

Then reality knocked on his skull. The fire marshal was asking if he had a place to stay.

It hadn’t even occurred to him yet, but now that he had to consider it, Michael had no idea where to take his brothers. Insurance would come into play at some point, but it wasn’t like he could call up his agent and money would appear in the checking account tomorrow. They could ride on credit cards for a while, but feeding and housing five people on Visa’s dime would only last so long.

But what was he supposed to say? He knew from experience that he couldn’t admit uncertainty in front of anyone official. He held back any emotion and wished his voice didn’t sound as if he were speaking through ground stone. “I have to make a few calls. I’ll work it out.”