Maya waited.
“I didn’t.”
The silence stretched.
Hospital air always seemed too thin for difficult conversations. Too dry. Too exposed. Somewhere down the hall, a cart rolled past, rattling softly. An intercom called for a doctor on another floor. Life continued, indifferent.
Maya said, “I didn’t owe you my medical history.”
“No.” He stared at the floor, then finally looked at her. “You didn’t.”
“You married me for six months because your friend dared you to.”
His face changed at that. She saw the hit land.
“I know what I did,” he said.
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.
