“I do not want Eleanor coming here,” Maya said, her fingers tightening against her hospital gown. “She has the spare key to our place. She could just walk in.”
“She won’t,” I said. “I am moving you to a private wing downstairs. No one will have the room number except Julian and the nursing staff.”
A nurse named Clara came in with a wheelchair and a small plastic bag for Maya’s toiletries.
Maya held our newborn son, Liam, in his white wicker bassinet on her lap as I pushed the wheelchair down the long, quiet corridor to the west wing.
The new room was smaller, but the window faced a quiet interior courtyard away from the street.
“The pain is still there,” Maya whispered as I helped her into the new bed. “But it is a clean pain now, not the hot, throbbing ache of the infection.”
“Rest now,” I said, tucking the thin white blanket around her. “We are safe here.”
