Six weeks into the cooling-off period, Dallas took Karsyn to a bar downtown.
I knew because he told me. Not asked. Told.
"I'm going out," he said, standing in the doorway with his keys already in his hand. "Don't wait up."
Karsyn was in the living room, scrolling through her phone. She wore a black dress that clung to her belly. Seven months now. She looked up when he spoke, smiled at me like we were friends.
I nodded.
They left at eight.
I sat on the couch and waited.
I didn't know what I was waiting for. I just knew I was.
The call came at 10:43 p.m.
Unknown number. I answered on the second ring.
"Is this Ivy Grant?"
"Yes."
"This is Harborview Medical Center. Your husband has been admitted. You're listed as his emergency contact."
The voice was calm. Professional. Like they made calls like this all the time.
"What happened?"
"There was an altercation. He's stable, but you should come in."
I hung up. Put on my shoes. Grabbed my purse.
I drove to the hospital with the radio off.
The ER waiting room smelled like antiseptic and burnt coffee. A nurse at the desk checked my ID, pointed me down a hallway. "Third door on the right. He's awake."
I walked slowly.
Through the window in the door, I could see him.
Dallas was on the bed, propped up at an angle. His face was bruised. Split lip. One eye swollen half-shut. Karsyn sat in the chair beside him, her hand wrapped around his.
She was crying.
He said something. I couldn't hear it through the glass. She nodded, squeezed his hand.
Then she stood.
She leaned over, kissed his forehead. Soft. Tender.
Then she turned, reached for his jacket draped over the back of the chair, and slipped her hand into the inside pocket.
I watched her fingers close around his wallet.
She pulled it out. Flipped it open. Counted the bills inside — I could see her lips moving — and slid the cash into her purse.
She put the wallet back.
She looked at Dallas one more time. He had his eyes closed.
Then she walked out.
She passed me in the hallway. Our eyes met for half a second.
She didn't stop.
I stood there. Listened to her heels click down the tile. Listened until I couldn't hear them anymore.
Then I pushed open the door.
Dallas's eyes opened. He saw me. His face twisted.
"Where is she?"
I stepped inside. Let the door close behind me. "She left."
"What?"
"She left, Dallas."
He tried to sit up. His arms shook. He fell back against the pillow, breathing hard. "Go get her. She's probably just—"
"She took the money from your wallet and walked out."
He stared at me.
I pulled the chair closer to the bed and sat down.
"What happened?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. His jaw worked like he was chewing something bitter.
"Some guy," he finally said. "At the bar. Said something about her. About the baby."
"So you hit him."
"I defended her."
I looked at his face. The bruises blooming purple and black. The split skin.
"How many of them were there?"
"Two. Maybe three. I don't know."
"And they hit back."
His eyes flashed. "What was I supposed to do? Let him talk to her like that?"
I didn't answer.
A doctor came in twenty minutes later. Young. Tired-looking. He had a tablet in his hands and a name tag that said Dr. Patel.
He looked at me first. "You're his wife?"
"Yes."
He nodded. Pulled up a stool. "Mr. Grant, I need to go over your imaging results."
Dallas tried to sit up again. Failed again. "Just tell me."
Dr. Patel tapped the screen. Turned it so we could see. A scan of a spine. White bones against black.
"You have fractures in your L1 and L2 vertebrae. The impact caused significant trauma to your spinal cord."
Dallas stared at the screen. "What does that mean?"
"It means you've lost motor function below the waist. We ran sensation tests while you were sedated. There's no response."
The room went very quiet.
"You're saying I can't walk," Dallas said.
Dr. Patel's face didn't change. "That's correct."
"For how long?"
"It's permanent, Mr. Grant."
Dallas laughed. Sharp. Ugly. "No. No, that's not— You're wrong."
"I'm sorry."
"Run the tests again."
"We've run them twice."
"Then run them again!"
Dr. Patel stood. "We'll schedule you with a physical therapist and get you set up with a wheelchair before discharge. If you have questions, the nurse can page me."
He left.
Dallas looked at me.
I looked back.
"Call Karsyn," he said.
I pulled out my phone. Dialed her number.
It rang once. Then a recorded voice: The number you have reached is no longer in service.
I hung up.
"She blocked you," I said.
His face went white.
They discharged him four days later.
I signed the papers. Listened to the discharge instructions. Watched as two orderlies transferred him from the bed into a wheelchair — black frame, vinyl seat, wheels that squeaked when they rolled.
Dallas didn't look at me the entire ride home.
I pulled into the apartment complex parking lot, got the wheelchair out of the trunk, and brought it around to the passenger side. The orderlies had shown me how to lock the brakes. How to position it. How to help him transfer without either of us getting hurt.
I did it exactly the way they'd taught me.
Dallas gripped the armrests, his knuckles white. I pushed him toward the building entrance.
Margaret Holloway was outside watering her plants. She looked up, saw us, and her face crumpled into instant sympathy.
"Oh, Ivy," she said, setting down the watering can. "I heard. I'm so sorry."
I stopped. Smiled softly. "Thank you, Margaret. We're managing."
"If you need anything—"
"I'll let you know."
She reached out, squeezed my hand. "You're a good wife."
I pushed Dallas inside.
The elevator ride was silent.
I unlocked the apartment door, wheeled him into the living room, and locked the brakes.
"I need to use the bathroom," he said.
I looked at him.
He looked away.
I unlocked the brakes and pushed him down the hall.
Inside me, something cold and sharp and patient began to take shape.
I smiled at the wall where he couldn't see.
And I started measuring.
