Page 111 of The Wild Beneath

Annie bites the inside of her cheek. If she stops, she might lose the energy to keep going.

“If I was off work, I’d just stew at home,” Annie says, avoiding Hazel’s eyes, clicking randomly through tabs on the computer screen. It isn’t true, what she said. She would not stew at home. She’d spend all her time at the beach, wandering, collecting matching shells, swimming the high tides.

Hazel stands and comes around the desk. “Do you want another coffee at least?”

“I should probably eat some real food.” She digs through her bag to retrieve the rest of the ham sandwich.

“A fantastic reason to come home for dinner.” It’s Evan’s voice. Annie turns and he is there: in jeans and a black puffy jacket, jingling his car keys.

“Was giving her a piece of my mind again,” Hazel says.

“What’d she do this time?” He rubs Annie’s back in his usual overlapping circles. Sand dollar drawings, he always said. Doubles. She leans into him.

“Her iron’s low.”

His hand stops moving.

“Make sure she does something about that, Evan,” Hazel says over her shoulder as she walks down the hallway toward the cafeteria. “And take her home while you’re at it. We got this.”

Evan crosses his arms. “Absolutely,” he says.

“Hi,” Annie says, stepping back an inch to face him.

“You got bloodwork done?”

“I did.” Annie unwraps the rest of the ham sandwich. “This is practically desiccated.”

“Were you going to tell me?”

She tosses the sandwich in the garbage. “Would it kill them to add some mayonnaise?”

A nurse comes behind Evan with an empty stretcher. The end bumps into the back of his thigh. “Sorry,” she says. “Traffic jam. Need to get by.”

Evan takes Annie’s hand and pulls her into the side hallway. “Please talk to me,” he says. “Are you sick?”

His eyes don’t leave hers. Those long black eyelashes—­it reminds her of when he was a nine-year-old boy, scrubbing oysters on the beach, shucking and eating them on the spot. He gave her the best ones.

“I’m not sick,” she says. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I’m already worried.”

“I’m managing.”

“I don’t want you to manage.”

“What else am I supposed to do?”

“I want you to be happy.”

“Sorry. Coming through this way now.” The nurse is back, manoeuvring another stretcher.

“Glad you’re getting a room finally, Mr. Simmons,” Annie says. He’s been in the hallway for two hours, writhing with a kidney stone. She untangles his IV tubing as he wheels by.

Evan pulls her back in front of the nursing station. “Annie. Look at me. Can we get out of here?” he asks. “We really need to.”

Hazel’s phone rings and another clerical staff picks it up. “Dr. MacLeod—­line two. It’s radiology.”

Evan groans.