The ambulance ride smelled like antiseptic and rain. Julia’s fingers gripped the hospital-issued blanket until her knuckles whitened; Brandon sat opposite her, wet hair pressed to his forehead, eyes restless. Neither spoke for several minutes — the silence was a low hum of fear they both refused to name.
“She’s breathing,” the nurse said as they hustled them through sliding doors. “We’ll take her in for observation.” Julia exhaled as if someone had finally allowed air back into her lungs. “Thank God.” Brandon’s jaw worked. “I told you not to let her push herself.” “She never listens.” Julia’s voice cracked, half-laugh, half-cry. He reached for her hand; she let him. The contact steadied a tremble that had nothing to do with the rain.
In the fluorescent quiet of the emergency waiting room
