“You fell asleep while standing at the sink.”
“I was thinking.”
“Go.”
Leah came with me.
The apartment felt wrong the moment I opened the door.
Too quiet.
Noah’s jacket still hung from the hook. His coffee mug sat beside the sink where I had left it after washing it the morning of the accident. A pair of his shoes blocked the hallway.
Marlowe raced toward us from the living room, moving with more energy than he had shown in years. He pushed past me and searched the stairwell.
“He’s not here,” I said.
The dog looked up.
I crouched and buried my face in his neck.
Marlowe smelled of Caleb’s house and rain.
Leah touched my back, then moved away to give me privacy.
I showered.
The water ran gray around my feet.
When I climbed into bed, I stayed on my side. Noah’s pillow carried the faint scent of his shampoo. I pressed it to my chest and closed my eyes.
Sleep came like unconsciousness.
I woke two hours later in panic, reaching across an empty mattress.
Leah stood in the doorway. “The hospital called.”
I was out of bed before she finished.
“He’s stable,” she said quickly. “They want you to come in and speak with the neurosurgeon.”
My hands stopped on the buttons of my shirt.
“Why?”
“They wouldn’t tell me.”
I drove too fast.
Dr. Bell met us in a private office near the intensive care unit. A neurologist named Dr. Marcus Venn sat beside her. He had kind eyes, which I had begun to distrust.
“Noah’s scans show improvement,” Dr. Bell said. “The swelling continues to decrease, and there is no new bleeding.”
“That’s good.”
“It is.”
“But.”
