They're clean now, scrubbed pink and raw, but I can see the ghost of engine grease in the creases of his knuckles.
He was working in the garage when he got the call.
He's always working in the garage—tearing apart engines and putting them back together, finding order in machinery when everything else in his life is chaos.
It's the only thing that silences his demons, he told me once.
The only time his head goes quiet.
I wonder what sounds fill his head now.
What nightmares I've given him.
"They lost you for two minutes," he finally says, each word landing like a stone dropped into still water. "Narcan brought you back, but..." He trails off, shaking his head. "Two minutes, Vanna. Your heart stopped for two fucking minutes."
Two minutes.
One hundred and twenty seconds of nothing.
No heartbeat. No breath. No brain activity.
Just a body on a dirty mattress, slipping away while strangers stepped over me to get their next fix.
I should feelsomething.
Fear, maybe.
Relief that I'm still here.
Gratitude for the EMTs who shocked my heart back into rhythm.
Something.
But all I feel is numb.
Hollow.
Like someone has scooped out my insides with a rusted spoon and left nothing but the shell of who I used to be.
"I'm sorry," I whisper, and the words taste like ash.
Like every other apology I've ever offered him.
Empty. Meaningless. A reflex more than a sentiment.
"Don't." His voice is sharp, and I flinch.
He notices immediately, his expression softening into something that looks too much like heartbreak. "Don't apologize to me. Just... don't."
We sit in silence for a while.
The machines beep their steady rhythm, monitoring vital signs that almost flatlined.
Somewhere down the hall, a phone rings.
A door opens and closes.
Footsteps pass by, soft and purposeful.
