Emma felt the pain first as a bright thread, a pulled stitch in the fabric of her body, then as a rip that would not be hemmed. She steadied herself on the edge of the counter and tried to breathe past it, counting in fours the way Clarence had shown her: four in, six out, give the body something boring to do so the mind will follow. The breath snagged. The room, so recently civilized by soup and quiet orders on the whiteboard, seemed to list a degree to the left.
Walter was on his feet before the chair finished scraping back. The good doctor was quicker than the contrite husband; Emma almost hated him for how fast he arrived. “Where?" he asked, hands at the ready, palms hovering, afraid to touch what he didn't understand.
“Lower," she said. “Right." Her voice was thin as thread. The pai
