The ringtone slices the room in two. Marcus's thumb flicks the screen; Vivian spills into the air like a siren learning to sob.
“Marcus—" Her breath breaks. “The attending just came by. They said… it's worse. They said if I don't do a bone marrow transplant now, there could be… complications. Life‑threatening ones."
Her crying is messy and real and trained to be overheard. Even without a body, I feel the way grief bends space. It pulls the living closer and pushes the dead to the edges.
“I'm on my way," he says, voice soft like a gloved hand. “Listen to me—breathe, Vivian. I'm coming."
“I'm scared."
“I know." A practiced tenderness. “You're not alone. I'll be there soon."
He ends the call and turns to Joseph like a gavel about to fall. “Three days," he says, every syllable a clause.
