Chapter 3They didn’t know how to help. How to fight a slow dissolution. Nothing to punch, to throw lightning at, to rage against. No heroics left to try.
Ken and Betty circled around both their charges like short determined moons: doctors refusing to lose a war, parents glaring hopelessness into submission through sheer force of will. John, who was more or less recovered—pale from blood loss but getting better rapidly, thanks to Holiday plus his own accelerated self-repair serum—folded himself gingerly into a chair beside Holly’s bed. Wrapped in blankets, he clung to Holly’s hand, what there remained of it; he held an ink-sketch, a watercolor see-through version, of beloved fingers in his. He did not speak much, though he tried a few times.
Ryan knew what memories would be moving behind
