I do not call a lawyer. I am not ready. I only want air. Every breath in this room feels thin. I picture a life where my chest is light, with no begging, no threats, no halls where I wait to be chosen. I do not know the path. I only know I need it. I let myself want it.
Caroline closes the curtain and gives me a warm cup. “Drink," she says.
“I can't breathe right."
“It's grief," she says. “It moves the walls."
“I think of ending the pattern."
“Then change it," she says. “One small piece at a time."
She helps me sit, then lie down. She takes my phone when messages flash. Kira, the nurse, moves like a metronome—vitals, lines, notes. The beeps become a hum.
The first night I dream of a tiny yellow dress on a high hook. I wake with my fingers curled. The second night I do not dream. On
