The hospital had always been a place of certainty for Michael Co.
Illness followed patterns. Injuries had protocols. Even death, as cruel as it was, arrived with clinical clarity. There were charts to read, symptoms to track, procedures to follow. For most of his adult life, Michael had believed that if he worked hard enough, stayed sharp enough, and cared deeply enough, he could always find the right answer.
That illusion was shattered three days after his conversation with Marnie.
The morning began like any other—quiet, measured, almost deceptively peaceful. The twins slept late, their synchronized breathing filling the condo with a gentle rhythm. Marnie sat by the window, sipping warm milk, one hand resting on her stomach out of habit, the other holding her phone as she scrolled abse
