Chapter 3

The urgent care clinic smelled of harsh lemon disinfectant and wet wool.

It was housed in a low-slung, cinder-block building two blocks off the main drag, its frosted glass door rattling every time the coastal wind kicked up outside. A fluorescent tube overhead buzzed with a low, neurotic frequency that matched the vibration in my teeth.

Stellan didn't sit down.

He stood by the intake window with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his canvas jacket, his shoulders squared against the teal-painted drywall. He had barely spoken a word during the two-block drive, keeping his eyes locked on the slick, rain-darkened road.

When the front desk receptionist finally called my name, Stellan moved before I could stand.

"She's coming back with me," he said, his voice flat as he stepped up to the counter.

The nurse looked up from her computer screen, blinking behind wire-rimmed glasses. "Are you immediate family, sir?"

"Husband," Stellan said.

I caught the nurse's gaze and shook my head slightly. "We're separated," I corrected, my voice thin. "He's only here as my driver."

Stellan's head snapped toward me, a sharp edge cutting into his gray eyes. "Irene."

"The patient is over eighteen," the nurse intervened smoothly, tapping her pen against the counter. "Unless she grants permission, you'll have to wait in the lobby, Mr. Cole."

No one spoke. Stellan stared at me, his jaw working as he wrestled with the public humiliation and the sudden, raw frustration of being locked out of a room where his wife was bleeding.

For a second, I thought he was going to override both of us. Instead, he stepped back, his expression hardening into a flat mask.

"Fine," he clipped out. "Take your time."

He turned on his heel and walked over to a molded plastic chair in the corner, pulling out his phone. But he didn't unlock it.

He just held it in his palm, staring blindly at the dark screen.

The exam room was small, smelling of old paper and latex gloves.

A young physician named Dr. Hayes--sharp-eyed and brisk--closed the chart folder and looked at me across a narrow metal desk.

"Your husband looks like he hasn't taken a full breath since you came in," she observed mildly.

"He's my husband on paper. That's all."

"Semantics don't usually lower a man's blood pressure in a waiting room." She tapped a finger against my file. "The nurse noted upper GI bleeding following a vomiting episode. Given your medical history, Irene, I strongly advise you to go straight to the emergency department at Providence in Anchorage for a full evaluation."

"I'm not going to an ER."

"Irene, active gastric bleeding isn't something we patch up with a script and send on a road trip."

"I have seven days," I interrupted, harder than I intended. "Just give me something for the nausea, stop the immediate leak, and tell me what dangerous signs to watch for. That's all I'm asking."

Dr. Hayes studied me for a long, agonizing moment. She saw the exhaustion, the stubborn refusal to fold, and the stark geometry of a woman running out of road.

"I can treat the nausea and acid, but I can't promise the bleeding won't return," she said finally, sliding a prescription pad toward her. She filled out an electronic release form and spun the screen toward me. "If you refuse transport to the emergency room, you need to sign this AMA form acknowledging the risks."

I took the stylus, my hand steady, and signed my legal name across the digital pad.

Through the small frosted glass of the exam room door, I could see Stellan's blurred silhouette pacing in the hallway, his shadow pausing every few seconds as he stared toward where I sat. My signature didn't just reject medical intervention; it drew a hard, permanent boundary around how much of my death he was allowed to witness.

Ten minutes later, the exam room door clicked open, and Stellan stepped inside, his eyes immediately locking onto my face.

Dr. Hayes stood up, folding her hands over the chart. "Mr. Cole, Irene has authorized me to give you safety instructions. She may have an upper gastrointestinal bleed. I recommended an emergency room evaluation, and she declined. She is stable at this moment, but that could change."

Stellan's gaze darted from the doctor to me. "An ulcer?"

"I can't discuss the cause without her permission," Dr. Hayes replied smoothly. "I've prescribed medication for the nausea and acid, but she needs rest."

She picked up her pen, her eyes shifting to Stellan. "She shouldn't be alone tonight. What she chooses to tell you about the cause is still her decision. If she vomits blood again, becomes confused, or passes out, call 911."

Stellan went completely still.

The air in the small exam room dropped ten degrees. His eyes shifted slowly from the physician, landing heavily on my face.

"Again?" The question came out flat and hard. "You told me you bit your lip."