I braced myself on the crutch and closed the distance, step by step, toward Delilah.
"Take off the shawl!"
Delilah shrank back, her eyes rimmed red.
"Rosie, I was just cold. I only borrowed it for a—"
"I said take it off."
I reached out to yank the shawl away from her.
But Delilah flinched as if terrified, jerking back hard.
The trim on the shawl caught the corner of the table, and a long tear ripped straight through it.
Richard's face went white, and the instant he'd confirmed Delilah wasn't hurt,
he wheeled on me and shoved my shoulder with all his strength.
"Rosamond, what the hell is wrong with you!"
I'd lost too much blood today. I was already burning with fever.
That shove knocked me completely off balance.
The leg in the cast hit the floor, the bone that had just been set slipped out of place again, and a splitting pain drowned me in an instant.
He came over, grabbed my arm, and tried to haul me up.
"Enough. One little push isn't going to break a bone."
"I don't have the energy for your sob-story act. Get up."
As he wrenched at me, the stitches in the wound snapped,
the skin tore open, and blood ran red across the back of Richard's hand.
His fingers shook violently.
"Rosie, you—"
But just as his fingertips were about to touch my wound, Delilah cried out behind him.
"Richard, the sight of blood makes me faint. I can't breathe—"
The hand he'd reached out froze in midair.
The next second, as if on reflex, he turned and went to Delilah, pulling her into his arms.
"Forget about anyone else, look after Delilah first, she's about to pass out!"
Everyone crowded around Delilah. I lay alone on the floor.
Watching his back, frantic over Delilah, I drifted, and thought of three years ago.
Back then, the outbreak had everything locked down, and I'd burned so high in the middle of the night I was half-conscious.
Richard, his eyes red, ran across half the city, knocking on the door of one clinic after another.
Begging and begging, just to buy me a single bottle of fever medicine.
When he came back, his hands were swollen with cold, and he knelt on one knee by the bed.
"Rosie, please get better. As long as you're safe, I'd trade my life for yours and never think twice."
But the Richard who'd begged for medicine in that snowstorm would never run to me again.
When I woke again, I was already lying in a hospital bed.
My lower leg was back in a cast, and the slightest movement sent pain through my whole body.
"You're awake? Rosamond, yesterday was my fault."
"I honestly couldn't tell you were hurt that badly. I thought you were throwing a fit at me again."
He paused, and his tone slid back into that familiar, self-righteous certainty that the excuse was his to make.
"But you know how it is. Years ago the elevator broke down, and Delilah got claustrophobia saving me."
"She had an attack last night. I was frantic, that's the only reason I didn't see to you."
"You've always been so understanding. Don't be angry with me, all right?"
Hearing that, my stomach churned.
Every single time it was this. He'd bring up the life she'd once saved and use it to justify favoring Delilah without a shred of guilt.
I didn't argue with him. And I didn't grovel the way I used to, didn't say "it's fine."
I quietly drew my hand out of his palm, and Richard visibly froze for a moment.
The door of the ward pushed open, and Delilah walked in with red-rimmed eyes, carrying a soup thermos.
"Richard, is Rosie awake?"
She came to the bedside, looking anxious and ill at ease.
"Rosie, yesterday was my fault. I shouldn't have touched the shawl your mother left behind."
"I blamed myself all night and couldn't sleep, so first thing this morning I made soup to make it up to you. Won't you have a little?"
