Because he had given them to me bleeding and half-conscious, and I was selfish enough to want to keep them.
“He was in and out,” I said carefully. “He knew we were helping him.”
Georgia nodded quickly, desperate for scraps.
I hated myself.
Then I hated him.
Then I hated the ring.
Then I hated the part of me that wanted to ask if he loved her, if he said her name too, if she knew he drove to Santa Monica for Thai food just to orbit a life he kept pretending not to touch.
“Thank you,” Georgia whispered.
I nodded once.
Professional.
Kind.
Useful.
Safe.
Then I turned and walked away before my face could betray me.
I made it past the nurses’ station.
Past the vending machines.
Past the family bathroom where someone was crying behind a locked door.
Past the exit alarm that never worked right if you knew how to push the handle just so.
Then I was outside on the back fire escape, the metal steps cold beneath me, the night air hitting my face like a slap.
I did not remember buying the coffee.
I had one in my hand anyway.
Black.
Hot.
Bitter enough to punish.
I also did not remember taking the cigarette from the little emergency stash one of the night-shift nurses kept hidden in a plastic bag taped beneath the loose brick near the door.
I had one of those too.
I had not smoked in years.
Not really.
The first drag burned so badly I coughed until my eyes watered.
Then I took another.
