Chapter 3

Evan was already reaching for his phone when it rang.

"Her dog," he said. "It threw up again. Harper is scared."

I was on the bathroom floor with my shoulder against the cabinet. The nausea had passed, but my legs still felt distant and unreliable.

"Before you go," I said, "could you bring me some water and wait until I call a car?"

For a second, Evan looked at me rather than at his phone. His face softened. He went to the kitchen, filled a glass, and set it on the counter beside the bathroom door.

Then another message arrived. He picked up his keys.

"Lie down after you drink it," he said gently. "If you still feel bad, call an Uber. Or call your mom. I'll check on you when I can."

I watched the water on the counter. It was only a few steps away, but I had to pull myself upright to reach it.

"What if I need to go to the hospital too?" I asked.

Evan paused with his hand on the doorknob. "Call the nurse line. If they tell you to go in, take a car. Harper is alone, but I’ll check on you as soon as I can."

He kissed the top of my head before he left. The glass of water remained on the counter outside the bathroom.

I drank the water, called the nurse line, and waited for a car with my coat around my shoulders.

“You’re ten weeks and you can’t keep fluids down,” the nurse said. “You need to be seen tonight.”

I booked the first Uber that appeared.

In the back seat, while rain dragged across the window, a photo appeared in a small private work group. Harper sat in an animal emergency waiting room. Evan was beside her, one hand around her shoulder. The Samoyed lay on a blanket at their feet.

Thank you for coming when I was scared, Harper wrote.

Evan answered: You don't have to handle everything alone.

One of their coworkers asked whether the dog was doing better. Harper replied that the vet was giving her fluids.

At the hospital, the doctor moved the wand once, then again. Then he stopped looking at the screen.

“I’m sorry, Claire,” he said. “I can’t find cardiac activity.”

“Can you check again?”

He did. The room stayed quiet.

“You’ll need follow-up care on Friday,” he said.

I took the ultrasound printout when he handed it to me, but I kept it facedown in my lap.

I opened Evan's contact and held my thumb above his name. On my screen, his last words to Harper were still there: You don't have to handle everything alone.

I turned the phone facedown. A minute later, I wrote Maya instead: If I need to leave, what do I protect first?

Evan came home close to dawn. He looked tired, not triumphant. "The dog is stable," he whispered. "Harper was terrified."

He noticed my pale face and pulled the blanket higher around my shoulders. "Did you get some rest?"

"A little," I said. I did not tell him where I had been.

After he fell asleep, I checked our credit-card app. His $2,400 charge for Harper's dog sat directly above the unpaid $3,000 cardiology copay for my mother.

Three weeks earlier, Evan had told me we needed to wait until next quarter for my mother's appointment.

Maya's reply appeared before sunrise: First protect your documents, your money, and your ability to leave. You do not have to face Friday alone.