The bills come in white envelopes. Mount Sinai's logo in the corner. Blue ink. Professional font. I stack them on the desk in the guest room where I've been sleeping for two weeks.
Cardiology consultation. Emergency room visit. Lab work. Prescription refills. The numbers climb. I add them in my head because I don't want to see the total written down.
My personal account can't cover it. Not anymore. Not after three years of this.
I could ask Evander. His name is on the joint account. He wouldn't even notice the charge. But I know what he'd say. I can hear his voice in my head, cold and precise: *Another bill, Genevieve? How much is this costing me?*
I sit at the desk. I look at the pill bottles lined up on the windowsill. Orange plastic. White labels. Dr. Mercer's name printed at the bottom of each one.
The beta-blocker is almost empty. So is the anticoagulant. The refill date was yesterday.
I pick up my phone. I open the pharmacy app. I stare at the refill button.
I close the app.
I tell myself it's just for a few days. Just until I figure something out. Just until I can think.
I don't refill them.
Day one is fine. I feel lighter, actually. Less fog in my head. I make coffee. I water the plants. I sit by the window and watch the street below.
Day two, my hands shake a little. I assume it's caffeine. I switch to tea.
Day three, my chest feels tight. Not pain. Just pressure. Like someone's palm pressed flat against my sternum. I lie down. It passes.
Day four, I wake up at 3 a.m. drenched in sweat. My heart is beating wrong. Too fast, then too slow, then a strange flutter that makes me sit up gasping. I drink water. I count my breaths. Eventually it stops.
Evander doesn't notice. He leaves early. He comes home late. On day four he doesn't come home at all.
Day five, I'm making breakfast. Oatmeal. I'm stirring the pot when the kitchen tilts sideways.
I grab the counter. My hand slips. The spoon clatters into the sink. The floor rushes up.
I don't feel myself hit the ground. I just know suddenly I'm looking at the underside of the table, and my body is doing something I can't control. Shaking. Seizing. My teeth slam together. I taste copper.
The fragment. The bullet fragment two millimeters from my left ventricle. It's moving. Or my heart is moving around it. I can't tell. I just know it feels like something inside me is tearing.
I can't reach my phone. I can't reach anything. I try to call out but nothing comes. Just a sound like choking.
The world goes white at the edges.
Somewhere far away, I hear a crash. Footsteps. A woman's voice, high and frightened.
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Yes, I need an ambulance—"
Clara Hayes. My neighbor. The one who always smiles at me in the hallway.
I try to say thank you. Nothing comes out.
The white edges close in.
I wake up behind glass.
That's the first thing I notice. Everything is blurry and there's a wall between me and the world. No. Not a wall. A window. I'm in a room and people are walking past outside and no one is looking at me.
There are tubes in my arms. A clip on my finger. Something beeping in rhythm with my heart.
Mount Sinai. ICU. I know this room. I've been here before.
I try to sit up. A nurse appears beside me, her hand gentle on my shoulder.
"Easy," she says. "You're okay. You're safe."
I'm not okay. I know that. But I nod anyway.
"Your husband is here," she says quietly. Something in her voice makes me look at her face. She won't meet my eyes.
I turn my head toward the glass.
Evander is standing outside. Hands in his coat pockets. Charcoal overcoat. No scarf. He's staring at me through the glass, but his face is blank. Not worried. Not relieved. Just... waiting.
Dr. Mercer approaches him. I can't hear what he's saying, but I see his mouth moving. Explaining. Updating. Evander cuts him off with a single raised hand.
I watch Evander's mouth form the words: *"Is she stable?"*
Mercer nods.
Evander nods back. Once. Efficient. Then he turns toward the glass. Toward me. His voice carries through, loud and clear, like he wants to make sure I hear.
"Are you trying to guilt me into staying? Is dying your leverage now?"
The nurse beside me goes very still.
A passing nurse in the hallway stops walking. Mercer stares at Evander like he's spoken a language no one recognizes.
Evander straightens his tie. He turns. He walks away.
I watch him go. I watch the glass where he was standing. I watch the empty space.
The beeping of my heart monitor doesn't change. Steady. Even. Alive.
I close my eyes.
The nurse squeezes my hand. She doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say.
I lie there and listen to my heart. The one I broke saving his.
