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The room is larger than I expected. Graffiti covers nearly every inch of the walls, layers of names and drawings and angry words sprayed over one another. A huge mirrored window takes up most of one side, and piles of breakable things have been arranged around the room. Bottles, plates, old lamps, a television, vases, an ancient computer monitor.

But I barely see any of them.

Because against the far wall is a hospital bed.

My fingers tighten around the bat.

The metal rails are raised.

Beside it stands an IV pole with a clear bag hanging from it. Plastic tubing curls down toward the floor. There's a metal tray beside the bed, disposable cups, syringes without needles, bandages, pieces of medical equipment scattered around it.

My body recognizes it before my mind does.

Hospital.

Damiano.

My breathing changes.

Then I see what's in the corner.

A crib.

A tiny blanket has been folded over one side, and my heart stops.

No.

I stare at it.

We never even got to find out what our babies would have looked like.

I look away so quickly it makes me dizzy, and that's when I see the wall.

I know that picture.

I've seen it on hospital pamphlets. Medical websites. Articles I read at three in the morning while Damiano slept beside me because I was convinced that if I could just understand enough, learn enough, ask the right questions, somehow I could help save him.

Cells.

Acute Myeloid Leukemia.

Three letters printed across a canvas large enough to cover half the wall.

AML

My grip around the baseball bat tightens until my fingers hurt.

“Jude.” My voice breaks.

I hear him step closer before his hand settles on my shoulder.

“Trust me.”

I can't take my eyes off the wall. “You did this?”

He doesn't answer.

He doesn't have to.