"I said no."
Silence. I drag a hand down my face. Think. Just think. But my brain feels like it's moving through mud. Too many things. Too little sleep. Too much pain. I glance sideways to where Gabe is watching me. Not the room. Not the doctors. Me. Something in his expression tightens. Like he sees too much. Like he understands more than I want him to.
I pull myself back together.
"I'm not debating this right now," I decide, my voice sounds steadier than I feel. "We'll figure it out. Later."
Mom huffs but doesn't argue. Small win. I'll take it.
The doctors want to keep her overnight.
"Absolutely not," Mom snaps immediately. "I'm not staying here. I could die, and they wouldn't know why. If I die, I want it to be in my own bed."
I'm too tired to point out that she's not sleeping in her own bed right now. It wouldn't lead anywhere, anyway. I know thatwhen she's like this, there is nothing anybody can do. The poor doctor just hasn't realized it yet as he keeps trying to argue.
"Stacy," he tries again, patience thinning, "your blood pressure?—"
"I said no."
I close my eyes. I'm running on fumes and grief and something hollow that keeps echoingPete is dead, Pete is dead,over and over again like a broken record I can't shut off.
"Mom…" I try, but my voice sounds far away. Weak. Useless.
"I'm going home," she insists, trying to push herself up.
She sways. Even she can't hide that. Before I can move, Gabe steps in. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just… there.
"Stacy," he says, calm, controlled.
She freezes. Actually freezes. I blink. What?
"You're staying," he continues, in an even voice. "One night."
"I am not?—"
"You'll have a private room," he promises.
She hesitates. That's new.
"I'll have someone stationed outside your door," he adds. "Anything you need—food, water, your phone, your… cats updated on your condition—" I almost laugh. Almost. "They answer to you," he finishes. "Not the hospital."
Mom narrows her eyes. She's suspicious but interested.
"And I leave tomorrow?" she bargains.
"If the doctors clear you," Gabe assures her smoothly.
That's not a yes. But it's not a no either. Mom exhales. "Fine."
I stare at him. Just like that. Just… like that. He handled her in under thirty seconds. I've been trying for years.
"I'll arrange everything," he tells the doctor, already turning away like it's done. Because for him, it is.
All I can do is stand there in awe, trying to figure out how the hell he did that.
About an hour later, Mom and I are saying goodbye as she lies in a very comfortable bed in a private room on the top floor. The rest is a blur. Suddenly, I'm in the hallway. And the floor feels… unsteady. My legs don't quite listen.
"Hey—" Gabe's voice again.
