The card still hung from the ribbon.
Thinking of you.
—Mark’s Office Team
Not Mark.
His office.
For the first time, something cold crept beneath his ribs.
He pulled out his phone. The screen reflected his face before lighting up.
Twenty-six missed calls.
Fourteen voicemails.
Nine text messages from the hospital.
Three from his mother.
One from an unknown number.
And none from Emily after the surgery.
His thumb hovered over her contact.
Emily Carter.
A photo filled the screen—the two of them in Maine two summers earlier, her hair whipped across her face by the wind, her laugh bright and unguarded. Back then, before the pregnancy had frightened her and irritated him in equal measure. Before the doctor visits became “too many.” Before she stopped asking him to come because she had grown tired of hearing him sigh.
He pressed call.
It rang once.
Twice.
Then went to voicemail.
