At first, she thought the fever had twisted the words.
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She was folded against the passenger door with one arm locked around her stomach, wearing Garrett’s oversized gray sweatshirt over a nightgown that had gone damp against her legs.
The dashboard clock read 1:17 a.m.
Outside, the Tennessee highway had become a long strip of black glass, broken only by pine shadows, silver rain, and lightning that made the whole world appear for one cruel second at a time.
“Garrett,” she whispered. “Please. The hospital is the other way.”
He did not turn his head.
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His hands were fixed on the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles looked pale in the dashboard glow.
Every time lightning flashed, his wedding band caught the light.
It looked sharp.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.
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Eleanor blinked, fighting to understand him through the pain.
“Do what?”
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“You.”
The word landed harder than the rain.
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His voice shook, but it was not heartbreak.
It was resentment.
“The appointments,” he said. “The bills. The medicine. The crying. The panic. Your sickness has eaten everything.”
For three years, Eleanor had defended Garrett to anyone who noticed the way his voice went flat when he spoke to her in public.
He is tired, she would tell herself.
He is scared.
He loves me, but he does not know how to carry this.
She had said those words so many times that they had become a little prayer she repeated whenever he snapped at her after a doctor’s visit or sighed over another pharmacy receipt.
But there was no tenderness in the car that night.
There was only fear, anger, and a coldness that made her already-thin blood feel colder.
“Garrett,” she said, gripping the door handle because another cramp had started low in her abdomen. “I can’t even stand.”
He pulled onto the shoulder.
