“Michael.” It comes out as a choked sob. Lee takes a moment to pull herself together. Her arms go around him, she needs to touch him, to remind herself he's real and he's here and it's okay now. He's yelling in her ear. That's okay.
She buries her face in his shoulder, breathing in heavily through her nose. Lee is relatively clean, someone helped to wash her hair the other day, but she still smells of blood and vomit. She's been throwing up all weekend, dizzy and nauseated.
“I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay.” She is. She is. She's not in jail, nothing is broken. “I'm okay. I'm sorry. My head hurts. I was sick.”
Lee had been among those arrested during the initial raid, but had slipped away when the rioting started. Lost in the crowd, a cop had confronted her with a nightstick. She'd been unconscious for forty-three seconds. That she woke up with her mental faculties intact and without any swelling in the brain is a miracle. She's still alive now, which means the danger is probably passed.