"Baby?" My voice cracks, fear squeezing my throat. "Hey. Hey, my otter, talk to me. What movies are we gonna watch when you feel better, huh?"
Nothing.
I glance at the rearview mirror—Mom's eyes are full of the same dread flooding my body. The silence from Sophie terrifies me more than anything, and I try to just focus on the road blurring in front of me—driving as fast and as carefully as I can.
Don't crash. Don't stop. Please, God, don't let her go.
When the hospital finally comes into view, my heart is pounding so violently it hurts. I slam into the roundabout, throw the truck into park, and sprint around to pull Sophie into my arms. Mom jumps out, runs around to the front, and shouts that she'll park the truck.
"It's okay, baby," I murmur, pressing frantic kisses on the heated skin of her temple, tasting salt and rain and Sophie. "We're here. I've got you. We're gonna fix this—I promise. I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."
The doors slide open, and I jog through, trying not to jostle her too much.
I feel like I could rip through twelve men with my bare hands with the rage I'm feeling toward myself. Because I know Sophie is feeling like this because of me, due to my irresponsible actions.
This is all your fault, asshole. She's going to die.
Just like your dad.
"I need a doctor! Please—please help me!" The words shred their way out of my throat, and three people in scrubs at the front desk jerk their heads up at once. The tallest—broad-shouldered, bald, dressed in black scrubs—points with authority at the two in blue scrubs.
"Mary, Jon! Gurney, now!"
They jump into action, grabbing a gurney and rushing over to us, where I lower Sophie down. Everything in me is screaming to not let her out of my arms, but I force myself to let go.
These people are the only ones who can help her now. I've done enough—actually, no, I haven't done enough. I didn't do anything at all when I saw something was wrong.
I second-guessed myself, I assumed, I hesitated, I lived in denial, and now Sophie's paying the price.
I'm on their heels, slipping and stumbling on the wet floor as the storm hammers at the building.
"I'm Dr. Rashid," the tall man says, taking the stethoscope off his neck and placing it to Sophie's chest, but his question is directed at me, his tone controlled but urgent. "What happened?"
"She has breast cancer, she wasn't feeling well this morning, and her fever spiked—it was 100.9—and now she's getting worse—and I should have brought her earlier, I should have insisted, I sh—" I stutter out, frantic, each word spilling over themselves as I try to get them out at once.
"She's here now," Nurse Mary says, kind but efficient, sliding a thermometer across Sophie's forehead, adjusting oxygen, slipping a BP cuff around her arm. "You did the right thing."
The words feel empty.
"What's her name?" Nurse Jon asks me.
"Sophie," My voice cracks, and I try to clear it. "Sophie Bracken."
Two more medical staff members rush in, snapping on glovesand moving as if they share a single mind. The room fills with clipped voices and the rhythmic beeps of machines hooked up to the love of my life.
I run my hands through my hair, pulling—punishing.
"Sophie, can you hear me?" Dr. Rashid asks, his voice firm, trying to catch her attention. Sophie doesn't respond, just continues shaking and breathing too shallow and too fast. "Sophie, can you open your eyes?"
She doesn't. All she does is continue trembling on the bed, her breath fast and uneven. I pull harder on my hair, wanting to tear it out, wanting to reach inside my own chest and rip my heart out.
"How old?" Nurse Jon asks, standing at one of the computers in the room.
"Thirty. She's thirty," her birthday party flashes through my mind like a punishment. Her delighted, surprised face when she saw the party, singing to her, asking her on a date, and kissing my cheek.
My promise of next year...
"I'm so happy... you make me so happy, Callum."
