“Home," Elena whispered, fingers tangled in Gavin's sleeve.
“Home," he promised—
—and the lights smeared, the sirens thinned, the car became a tunnel and then nothing.
---
“Ms. Kent? Elena?" A woman's voice, bright and practiced. “Can you hear me?"
Elena clawed up through heavy cotton. White ceiling. A plastic bracelet on her wrist. The soft, rhythmic beep that says machines are counting you.
“Hospital," she croaked.
“Northside General," the nurse said, smiling like reassurance. “You fainted in the car. Your husband brought you straight in."
“My—" Elena turned. Gavin sat in a vinyl chair pulled too close to the bed, elbows on his knees, worry dimpling his brow. He stood fast, the chair legs squeaking.
“Hey," he said, relief washing the edges off the word. “You scared me."
“Baby?"
