He covered some of it himself.
Legally blocked the rest.
Quietly.
Always quietly.
They mistook that for weakness.
It wasn’t weakness.
It was grief.
Later, when Bradley stopped saving them, they labeled him cold.
Ungrateful.
Changed.
Marjorie told anyone willing to listen that I had turned him against his own blood.
The truth was simpler and harsher: once he experienced a life without constant taking, he no longer volunteered to be used.
Then came the hospital.
Bradley’s collapse happened quickly.
Chest pain that was supposed to mean nothing.
A night in emergency that turned into intensive care.
A diagnosis that suddenly made every hour count differently.
