Someone lifted her onto a stretcher.
Taylor followed all the way to the elevator. “I’m coming with her.”
“Sir, are you family?”
His answer came before the paramedic finished the question. “I’m her husband.”
The ambulance smelled like plastic, sanitizer, and electricity. Rain rattled faintly on the roof. Maya drifted in and out of the bright tunnel of the ride, aware at intervals of the medic adjusting something on her arm, the monitor answering with quick green rhythms, the city flashing by in red reflections across Taylor’s face as he sat on the bench opposite, knees braced wide, eyes fixed on her as if he could force her body to obey by sheer intensity.
At the hospital the world became fluorescent.
Sliding doors. Cold air. A nurse with a pen tucked behind one ear. A triage desk. Paperwork. Wheels over linoleum. A curtain drawn. Machines. Someone cutting away the evening’s illusion one practical step at a time.
