“A drain,” she repeats.
“To help remove the infected fluid,” the doctor says. “To take pressure off and help the antibiotics do their job. They also addressed the bleeding source they could see. He’s still in the ICU, still under close monitoring, but right now—this is movement in the right direction.”
Erica makes a sound that isn’t a word. Air leaving her lungs like she’s been holding it for years.
Her hands fly to her face for one second, then drop again like she’s afraid to touch herself, afraid she’ll fall apart if she starts.
“Can I see him?” she asks immediately. “Please.”
The doctor nods once.
“Yes,” she says. “Not for long, and there will be equipment and staff in the room. But you can see him.”
Erica’s eyes fill fast. She looks at me, and there’s a wild mix on her face—relief and terror and exhaustion and something like guilt.
I stand first because she’s still stuck to the chair, like her legs forgot how to work.
I offer my hand. She takes it.
“Okay,” the doctor says. “Come with me.”
Erica moves before her brain finishes catching up, dragging me with her. I stay at her side, as we disappear behind doors we’re usually not allowed through.
As we start walking, she swipes at her cheeks with the back of her hand, furious at her tears.
I lean in close, my voice low.
“Just breathe,” I tell her.
She does, shakily. Then she squeezes my hand again.
“Good news,” she whispers, like she has to say it out loud to make it real.
By the time I get her out of the hospital, it isn’t because I won an argument.
It’s because her body finally runs out of fuel.
She walks like she’s moving through wet sand, eyes too bright, face too pale.
When we step into my house, she doesn’t even pause to acknowledge it.
I get her to the shower because it’s the only thing I can do that feels remotely useful. I turn the water warm, and I step in with her, one hand on her elbow so she doesn’t sway when the tile gets slick.
She washes like it’s a task. No extra movement. No lingering. Soap. Rinse. Soap again. She drags shampoo through her hair with slow fingers and blinks under the spray like she’s trying to rinse the last two days off of her.
I wash her back and shoulders. She doesn’t speak.
I don’t either.
When I shut the water off, she stands there for a second with her forehead resting against my chest, breathing like she’s finally allowed to. I wrap a towel around her and guide her into the bedroom.
She makes it to my bed and folds into it without protest. Just a quiet, total surrender. One second, her eyes are open, glassy, and fixed on nothing.
The next, they’re closed.
Her breathing turns deep almost immediately.
I stand there and watch her for a beat. The way she curls onto her side. The way her hand tucks under her cheek. The way her face softens when she’s not fighting for the next minute.
