I caught her.
"I've got you," I said, pulling her against my chest as she collapsed into me. "I've got you. I'm here."
She wept with the full, anguished honesty of someone who cares too deeply, who had let herself hope. For a nurse, that was the professional hazard that cut the deepest.
"He's gone," she choked into my shoulder, her fingers clutching the fabric of my shirt. "He was just a kid, Miles. He showed me his drawings two days ago. He was getting better."
"I know," I murmured, one hand cradling the back of her head. "I know, sweetheart."
I didn't offer platitudes. None would help. I just held her as the storm raged, absorbing the tremors of her grief, my own heart breaking for her pain. This was the other side of her strength, this vast, vulnerable capacity to feel. She'd spent weeks teaching me to accept help. Now it was my turn to be the anchor for her.
We stayed like that for a long time. The documentary played on silently, a colorful parade of fish in a world that suddenly felt unbearably cruel. Eventually, her sobs subsided into hitched breaths, then exhausted silence. Her body grew heavy against mine, the tension draining away as sleep pulled her under.
I looked down at her tear-streaked face, peaceful now in unconsciousness, and felt something fierce and protective expand in my chest. She was spent. But sleeping curled upright on the couch would leave her with a stiff neck and aching back, so the least I could do was help.
"Okay," I murmured to myself. "We can do this."
Carefully, I shifted, sliding one arm under her knees and the other around her back. As I began to lift, my right arm, the one supporting her back, had betrayed me immediately. The tremor, agitated by the late hour and the emotional strain, ignited into violent, jerking shakes.
Don't you dare drop her, I told my body.I will drag us both to the bedroom through sheer spite if I have to.
My body, predictably, didn't listen. My arm shook harder.
Fine, I thought grimly, adjusting my grip, taking more weight with my left.Be difficult. See if I care.
I stood, my legs protesting, my right side threatening to lock up with that familiar rigidity. Charlotte's head lolled trustingly against my shoulder, her breath warm and slow against my neck.
"For the record," I grunted to her sleeping form, "this is extremely romantic. You're missing the romantic part."
She didn't respond, which was probably fair given she was sleeping.
The walk to my bedroom was the longest of my life. Each step was a conscious battle—against the tremor that wanted to rattle my bones, against the stiffness creeping into my right leg, against every instinct that screamed this was too hard. But her weight in my arms, the soft caress of her breath, the trust she'd placed in me, that was my compass.
I made it to the bed and laid her down as gently as my rebellious limbs would allow, pulling the quilt over her. I brushed a strand of hair from her damp cheek.
"Sleep well," I whispered.
Then I sank into the armchair in the corner, my right hand shaking uncontrollably now that the task was done. I watched over her until my own eyes grew heavy.
I woke at 5 AM, two hours before my alarm, to gray dawn light seeping through the curtains. Charlotte was still asleep, a small, forlorn shape in the center of my bed. The grief from the previous night hung in the room like a chill.
I knew, with bone-deep certainty, that I had to try lifting her hopes up. Even just a little.
Quietly, I slipped from the chair and padded to the kitchen. My body was stiff, the morning rigidity at its worst before my first dose. My hands trembled with a persistent, frustrating life of their own as I opened the refrigerator.
French toast. Her favorite. She'd mentioned it once, weeks ago, comfort food from childhood, the thing her mother made when the world felt too heavy.
"Okay," I said aloud, surveying the ingredients. "Eggs. Bread. Cinnamon. How hard can this be?"
The answer, as it turned out, wasvery.
The first egg shattered against the bowl rim too hard, shell fragments raining into the mixture like confetti at the world's worst party.
"Fantastic," I muttered, fishing out the pieces with trembling fingers. "Really excellent work…"
The extraction took approximately nine years. The second egg was better. The third was almost decent.
"See?" I told the eggs. "We're getting the hang of this. Teamwork."
