Nation of Enemies by H.A. Raynes

That’s good because the first twenty-­four hours are the most important. He’s lost some muscle control, but that should come back relatively soon. An hour ago he woke up and spoke to Dr. Wendall. Given everything he’s been through, it’s quite a miraculous recovery.”
    Miraculous, indeed. Please let him be asleep. By habit her fingertips stroke her cheek, lingering on the scars left by the fragments from the MedFuture explosion. A constant reminder of Mason, of all that she lost. She remembers the eyes of the young intern who had bent over her face for hours picking out the tiny bits of debris. Flecks of amber in pools of green. With the mask over his nose and mouth, she’d only seen his eyes. He’d gotten out almost all the glass, but every now and then a little piece will work itself out.
    Up ahead, two broad-­shouldered Secret Ser­vice agents stand on either side of a glass door. Beyond them she can see her father, gray and unmoving, in a bed. The men give her a cursory glance as she brushes past them with the nurse.
    The room is alive with intermittent beeps, the hum of monitors, a controlled flow of circulating air. Taylor hates hospitals. She’d spent too much time in one watching her mother die. She stares at her father, slack-­jawed, a tube in his nose and an IV hooked into his arm. The nurse checks monitors and fluids.
    â€œSo he could wake up any time now?”
    â€œYes.” The nurse gives her a wry smile.
    Taylor knows the look. The rift between she and her father is widely known, though they’ve never confirmed it. The press has speculated about it ever since the MedFuture attack. The public knows the Hensley family history almost as well as they themselves know it.
    â€œThe doctor will be in soon.” The nurse leaves, the doors shutting behind her.
    Suddenly, it’s harder to breathe, as though she’s been sealed into an enormous pouch with her father. If this were one of her graffiti pieces, it would be a bubble and her father would fill almost all of the space. Her face would be pressed against the surface, her nose exaggerated as she searches for a hole to slip through.
    From a distance, she studies him. On his ring finger is the wedding band he’s never taken off, though it’s been fifteen years since Taylor’s mother died. The deep creases in his forehead and cheeks are relaxed, making him look younger. This was the face she trusted and loved most of her life. She remembers when they used to go to Castle Island for hot dogs and ice cream at Sullivan’s. Families would carry in charcoal grills and lie on blankets under the trees. The air smelled of barbecue and the ocean. Sienna shares those kinds of uncomplicated times with him now. Taylor has allowed it and hopes she made the right decision. She wonders if an hour here and there can have too much influence. Maybe.
    An hour later he hasn’t moved, hasn’t made a sound. His private physician, Dr. Wendall, comes in to speak with her. Apparently her father was fairly lucid when he woke up. From early tests, the doctor believes he hit his head on the State House steps and has a concussion. They’re monitoring him to rule out a stroke, but the MRI shows no evidence of brain damage. From the nerve gas, he has respiratory issues that will fade and headaches that will subside. The doctor expects a full recovery.
    She thanks him and he leaves. So, her father’s not at Death’s door. This is almost a vacation for him. Good PR. They’ll probably throw him a parade after this. She slips back on the baseball hat and steps toward the door.
    â€œTaylor?” His voice is a raspy whisper.
    So close. She turns to face him. “They say you’re going to be okay.”
    â€œLucky.”
    â€œThat’s one word for it.”
    â€œWhat word—­” His breath is labored as he continues. “—­would you choose?”
    â€œThere are