I didn’t know what to say.
He didn’t move.
Just watched me.
And something in my chest—something that had been wound tight for two weeks—loosened just a little.
Because he was there.
He didn’t have to be.
The contract didn’t require it.
But he was there.
The nurse guided me into the procedure room, helped me onto the table, adjusted the stirrups.
Dr. Beaumont came in, smiling warmly.
“How are you feeling, Truth?”
“Nervous,” I admitted.
“That’s normal.” She squeezed my hand. “We’re going to take good care of you. The anesthesiologist is going to give you something to help you relax, and then we’ll get started. You’ll be asleep for the whole thing. When you wake up, it’ll be over.”
I nodded.
The anesthesiologist appeared at my side, adjusting the IV.
“You’re going to feel a little cold sensation,” he said. “And then you’ll start to feel sleepy. Just let it happen.”
The cold rushed through my veins.
And the last thing I thought before everything went dark?—
He’s here.
He came.
And that meant something.
I woke up to the sound of machines beeping.
My mouth tasted like metal and cotton. My throat was dry. My body felt heavy—like someone had filled my limbs with sand and forgotten to drain it out.
I blinked.
The ceiling tiles above me were white. Bland. Water-stained in one corner.
I blinked again.
The room came into focus slowly—pale green walls, a privacy curtain half-drawn, a monitor beside the bed displaying numbers I didn’t understand.
My right hand throbbed.
I looked down.
IV line taped to the back of my hand. Clear tubing snaking up to a bag hanging from a metal pole.
