Too late to change anything.
Or maybe not.
The dog’s—what’s his name again?—weight shifts again, and I cling to that small piece of reality. If I can still feel him, if I can still think of her, maybe I’m not gone yet.
Maybe there’s still a chance.
But it’s slipping.
I hover at the edge, teeter between letting go and clawing my way back.
Part of me wonders what’s waiting if I fall, if there’s peace in surrender.
But then I see her again, her amazing eyes locking on mine.
I can’t let go. Not yet.
I need to tell her. I need her to know.
The darkness swells, and my body feels like lead. The dog whines, and if I spoke dog, I’m pretty sure he’d be saying he’s scared.
I try to reach, to move, to prove I’m still here. Nothing.
Until…
I no longer feel him.
The dog.
My companion. My friend.
He’s gone.
And with him…the image of Tabitha.
Along with my last flicker of thought.
Three
Tabitha
My heart sinks as I look at the phone.
It’s just a text from the senior surgical resident who’s working with Professor Landers, reminding participants to be on time tomorrow.
I sigh and put the phone back down, feeling like I’ve been kicked in the gut.
“Stop it!”
I’ve got to stop talking to myself like this, but it seems to be the only way I can get out of this funk.
I inhale deeply, gather myself, and try to put the text from not-Henry behind me. I force my mind to focus on the words before me, on the stark black of the text against the sterile white of the paper. I allow the scientific jargon to wash over me like a soothing balm, covering the raw wound of my heart.
I force myself to read and reread pages, to understand every word, every diagram, every case study. But the letters blur into each other and form a frenzied jumble in my mind.
Which, of course, morphs into Henry Simpson.
I should eat something. I haven’t eaten since breakfast at the Simpson ranch house.
