The drive to the St. Jude's Neurological Rehabilitation Center took exactly seventy-two minutes. Clara knew because she had checked her watch at every red light, not out of a need to stay on schedule, but because the ticking of the seconds was the only thing keeping her grounded. Beside her, Kai was a statue of forced composure. He had changed into a clean sweater, but his eyes still held the hollow, haunted look of the lighthouse.
The "Human Perspective" had taken a sharp, jagged turn. They weren't looking for sunsets anymore; they were looking for the truth that lived in the sterile, fluorescent-lit hallways of the "forgotten" side of the county.
"You don't have to go in," Kai said as they pulled into the parking lot. The building was low and modern, surrounded by manicured lawns that felt too green and too perfect, as if trying to overcompensate for the tragedy housed inside. "This isn't your mess, Clara. You've already done enough."
Clara turned off the engine. She looked at the heavy glass doors of the center, then back at Kai. "We're partners, Kai. That means 100% of the light and 100% of the dark. Besides, I already checked the visiting hours. If we don't go in now, we miss the window."
Kai managed a small, pained smile. "God, I love your obsession with windows."
They walked in together. The smell hit Clara first—not the brine and salt of the pier, but bleach, industrial lavender, and a faint, underlying scent of medicine. It was a place of quiet struggle. They checked in at the front desk. Kai's hand shook so violently that Clara had to take the pen and sign his name for him.
"Room 412," the receptionist said, her voice kind but weary. "She's in the physical therapy wing right now. You can wait in her room or head down the hall."
"We'll go to her," Kai whispered.
They walked past open doors where people were relearning how to hold spoons, how to move fingers, how to exist in bodies that had betrayed them. Every step felt like a mile. When they reached the therapy gym, they stopped at the door.
Maya was easy to find. She had the same dark, curly hair Kai had described, though it was cut shorter now. she was strapped into a standing frame—a piece of equipment designed to hold her upright. A therapist was working with her, moving her legs in a slow, robotic mimicry of walking.
Kai stopped. He didn't move. He didn't even seem to breathe.
Maya looked up. Her face was pale, the "Golden Girl" glow Kai had talked about replaced by a sharp, observant stillness. When her eyes met Kai's, the air in the room seemed to shatter. She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She just stared at him with an expression that was impossible to read—part exhaustion, part recognition, and a deep, simmering anger that felt older than her nineteen years.
"Five minutes," the therapist said, sensing the tension. She stepped back, giving them space but remaining close enough to monitor the equipment.
Kai stepped into the gym. He looked small against the backdrop of the medical machinery. "Hey, Maya."
"You look different," Maya said. Her voice was thin, a rasp of its former self. "You grew your hair out. And you're carrying a camera. Is that the new hobby? Taking pictures of things that can't move?"
The words were a physical blow. Kai flinched, but he didn't look away. "I'm sorry, Maya. I know I'm the last person you want to see. I know my letters... I know your parents blocked them."
"They didn't block them, Kai," Maya said, her eyes fixated on his. "I asked them to. Every time a letter came, it felt like you were trying to bleed your guilt onto me. I didn't want your apologies. I wanted my legs back. And since you couldn't give me that, I didn't want anything at all."
Clara stood by the door, her heart breaking for both of them. She saw the "Human Perspective" in its rawest form—not a poetic metaphor, but a collision of two lives destroyed by a single second of gravity and speed.
"I'm working on a project," Kai said, his voice cracking. "With Clara." He gestured vaguely toward the door. "We're documenting the town. The real town. Not the postcard version. I wanted to... I wanted to ask if I could include your story. Not as a victim. Not as a tragedy. But as the truth."
Maya laughed, a dry, rattling sound. "The truth? The truth is that you're here because you want to feel better, Kai. You want to turn my 'human consequence' into a grade so you can sleep at night."
"No," Clara said, stepping forward. She didn't wait for permission. She walked right up to the standing frame, looking Maya in the eye. "He's here because he's been a ghost for three years, and he's tired of disappearing. He's here because I wouldn't let him hide anymore. This isn't about a grade. It's about making sure that what happened to you isn't something the town just whispers about in the dark. It's about making them see."
Maya looked at Clara, her gaze sharp and analytical. "You're the President, aren't you? Clara Vance. I remember your name from the honor rolls."
"I was," Clara said. "Now I'm just the person making sure Kai doesn't drop his camera."
Maya looked back at Kai. The silence stretched, filled only by the rhythmic hiss-whir of the medical equipment. Finally, her expression softened, just a fraction. The anger didn't leave, but the bitterness seemed to settle.
"If you take my picture, Kai Jenkins," Maya said, her voice gaining a sliver of its old strength, "don't you dare make me look pretty. Don't you dare put a 'blue hour' filter on this room. You show the straps. You show the braces. You show the way the light in here is always too bright and always too cold. You show them exactly what you did."
Kai nodded, his eyes filling with tears. He slowly lifted the camera. He didn't hide behind it this time; he looked over the top of the lens, making eye contact with his friend.
"I promise, Maya," he whispered.
Click.
The sound of the shutter was a period at the end of a long, painful sentence. They stayed for twenty more minutes. They didn't talk about the accident. They talked about the old street they grew up on. They talked about the coffee at The Inkwell. For a brief window, they weren't a "casualty" and a "criminal"; they were just two kids who missed the way things used to be.
As they walked back to the car, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the world smelling of wet earth and asphalt. Kai stopped at the edge of the parking lot, looking up at the sky.
"She hates me," he said, but his voice didn't sound broken anymore. It sounded relieved.
"She doesn't hate you, Kai," Clara said, leaning against the car. "She hates what happened. There's a difference. And she gave you the one thing you've been denying yourself for three years."
"What's that?"
"The truth," Clara said. "Now we just have to figure out how to tell it."
Kai reached out, taking Clara's hand. His grip was steady now. "Phase 2 starts tomorrow, Clara. We're going to the school board. We're going to change the theme of the project."
"They'll hate it," Clara said, a small, reckless smile growing on her face. "They'll say it's too dark. They'll say it doesn't represent the 'Evergreen Spirit.'"
"Then we'll show them that the Evergreen Spirit is a lie," Kai said. "And we'll do it in high definition."
As they drove away from the center, Clara looked at her watch. She was two hours late for her history study group. She was behind on her college applications. Her life was, by all previous standards, a complete and total mess.
And she had never felt more alive.