I follow her toward the stairs, feeling the weirdest urge to either argue with her or carry her bag.
“You should really mention the sound to maintenance,” I insist. “I’m not trying to be a nuisance, but I work late shifts. I need the exercise.”
“And I need my sanity,” she calls over her shoulder, not slowing as a small, knowing smirk plays on her lips. “My name is Madison, by the way.”
I freeze. “How did you know—”
“It’s my job to recognize when someone is in crisis,” Madison says, descending the stairs. “And you, Doc, have clearly found yourself right in the middle ofone. You were halfway to calling me Abby. Remember: running outside. Inside, use your quiet voices.”
She gives me a mocking little wave before she disappears. Then she’s gone, leaving me standing in the third-floor hallway, wondering how a woman in that much pain managed to make me feel like I was the one who needed a doctor.
Nine
Madison
Dad answers the door in his work jacket when I arrive at my parents’ house.
“Morning,” he says, his voice flat.
“Morning.” My eyes flick past him, scanning the quiet hallway. “Where’s Mom?”
His mouth tightens as a familiar shadow crosses his face. “She’s in bed. Been a bad couple of days.”
My chest sinks. “Bad how?”
He shrugs, looking down at his boots. “Low.”
I nod once and slip past him, already heading for the stairs. I take them slowly,muttering a string of colorful curses under my breath as my back protests the incline.
Her room smells of untouched toast and stale air. The plate sits on the dresser exactly where I expect it to be. Bread barely bitten. Tea gone cold. It’s another cycle. Another descent into the quiet.
She’s lying on her side, facing the wall. Her dark hair is loose across the pillow, her shoulders curled inward like she’s trying to disappear into the mattress.
“Mom,” I say gently.
Nothing.
I move closer and sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips with a tiny groan from the springs, but she barely reacts.
“Hey,” I try again. “It’s me. Madi.”
Her eyes flicker, but they don’t quite focus on me. They’re looking at something miles away. My throat tightens, and the professional woman is momentarily replaced by the little girl who used to check whether her mother was still breathing.
“Come on. You’ve got to eat so you can take your medication.”
Still nothing.
I reach for her arm. She feels smaller than she should.
“I know,” I murmur, more to myself than to her. “I know it’s hard.”
I help her sit up, biting back a hiss when my back flares in a blinding white heat.
Of all the mornings to be a human glow-stick.
She winces but lets me guide her, leaning into me the way she used to when I was a kid, and she’d come into my room after a nightmare. The roles reversed so long ago, I can barely rememberthe original script.
I break off pieces of toast and hold them to her mouth. She eats one bite at a time.
