NOAH
Preston let out a long breath. He looked like he had just finished a chore. "It's not my concern what he does in his spare time," he said.
He reached into his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He lit one with a silver lighter, the flame bright in the sterile room.
"Though I do find it distasteful," he added. The word was mild. He said it lazily, as if it didn't really matter, but it hit me like a physical blow.
He blew a cloud of smoke into the air.
I looked at the smoke. I looked at the machine that was clicking and humming, helping Cassian breathe. Then I looked at the cigarette in Preston's hand.
"You shouldn't be smoking in here," I said. My voice was strained, but I got the words out. "He's hurt. He needs clean air. This is a hospital."
Preston didn't even look at me. He just flicked a bit of ash toward the floor. "It will be fine," he said.
