When I finished, the staff member read my account back to me in plain language.
There was no dramatic speech and no promise that everything would be fixed by morning.
There was only a record that did not belong to Daniel.
I signed it.
Emily signed nothing.
She simply stayed.
That night, she slept in a vinyl chair with her sneakers still on because the nurse said someone might need to help me reposition before morning.
Each time I woke, Emily was there.
Sometimes she held a paper cup of water near my mouth.
Sometimes she adjusted the edge of the blanket so it did not pull against my IV.
Once, just before dawn, she whispered, “I am sorry I stopped coming by.”
I turned my head toward her as far as the brace allowed.
“You did not stop,” I said. “I stopped opening the door.”
Emily swallowed hard.
“Then I will keep knocking,” she said. “Quietly.”
