Page 47

S ociety was unraveling by this point, chaos flourishing in a world of climate emergencies, global pandemics and government-imposed lockdowns.

It wasn’t healing, it was rotting like meat left out in the sun.

The virus moved through every street, every town, every cracked corner of humanity.

The elderly died first, many alone and forgotten.

Nurses zipped them into body bags in silence while politicians spat blame across podiums, their words as hollow as the churches now locked and echoing.

No one took accountability. Everyone bled.

But inside our walls, there was a fragile illusion of control that I’d carved out with scraped knuckles and obsession. Grocery trips had become surgical missions. I’d strip at the door, bleach containers, scrub fruit like I could scour death off the skin.

Sloane’s work had shifted to curbside handoffs. No one entered the clinic unless they were family and even then it was kept limited, though not managed well. People wept in their cars as their pets slipped away without them .

And the kids, those amazing fucking kids, they adjusted like children always do. School through screens. Laughter through static.

We were surviving until the call.

It came from an unknown number. I was sitting behind Violet during her virtual class, half-listening as her teacher enthusiastically outlined next semester’s options.

Apparently private schools were their own strange ecosystems, full of jargon, expectations, and things like "block scheduling," which sounded more like a prison term than a fourth-grade curriculum.

I nodded politely, pretending to follow, while my mind wandered toward what I would cook for dinner.

Then the phone buzzed again and again. Its vibrations against my leg grew insistent, no longer just a mild inconvenience but a pulse of dread. I fished it out, silencing it once more with a thumb swipe, but it buzzed again almost immediately. Relentless.

My chest tightened. That low, dull certainty started to settle in my gut and I knew that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

When Sloane’s name lit up, I was already standing, picking up the call expecting to hear her. “Sloane what’s wrong?” Shock hit me when it wasn’t her voice that answered.

Charlie said, “You finally picked up.” He was breathless, as if he'd been in a marathon.

My pulse stuttered. “Charlie? What’s going on?”

His voice cracked. “Sloane. She was attacked. Paramedics are with her now. We are on the way to the hospital.”

The air left my lungs.

“She might lose the baby,” he added, barely audible.

A noise tore out of my chest, something between a growl and a scream as I shoved through the hallway toward the kitchen. “What the fuck happened? ”

“Angie,” he said, and the name landed like a curse. “She showed up at the clinic. She told the front desk she had an appointment and was insistent she wait in the lobby. When Sloane came around the corner, Angie went straight for her. No hesitation…”

“I swear to fucking God- ” I stopped myself, turned sharply as Liam appeared, alarmed. “Watch your sister. Don’t ask questions. I have to go.”

He nodded, eyes wide. My son. Always steady. I hated the fear I planted in him now.

Climbing in my truck, I barked into the phone. “Which hospital?”

Charlie gave the name. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t even hang up. I threw the phone into the passenger seat and drove like Hell was chasing me.

When I pulled into the ER lot, it was bedlam.

A sea of suffering people lined up in masks, eyes glassy, coughing into the crooks of their arms. Nurses moved like ghosts in gowns. Stretchers rolled past. A man screamed for help while another slumped against a wall in the corner, either asleep or dead. It was war. It was madness.

I forced my way to the front desk, ignoring the signs to stay back, ignoring the way the nurse flinched when I leaned in.

“My wife,” I said, voice shaking. “Sloane Shaw. She was brought in a few minutes ago. Pregnant. Attacked.”

The woman frowned, clicking slowly through her monitor, her fingers too calm for the storm raging in my chest.

“Please,” I said again, quieter this time, like begging would make her faster. “I need to know if she’s okay.”

The nurse finally looked up, her eyes bloodshot behind fogged glasses and the crease of an N95 .

“She’s in Room 312. Third floor. You’ll have to be quick. Only one visitor at a time, and it has to be brief.” Her voice was flat, clinical, but something in her gaze lingered on me, a flicker of sympathy. She knew I was breaking apart in front of her like so many others in this waiting room.

I didn’t wait for more. I shoved past the line, ignoring the protests, the temperature checks, the signs screaming Do Not Enter Without Clearance . My legs carried me on instinct, my heart thundering behind my ribs, shaking everything inside me loose.

The elevator took years. The hallway smelled of bleach and sorrow. Machines beeped in distant rooms like soft, fading heartbeats.

Then I saw the number.

312.

I pushed the cracked door slowly, afraid of what I might find… and there she was.

Sloane. My wife, pale and still. Unconscious on a hospital bed, wires running from her arms to machines that whispered in cold rhythms. Her face was bruised, the side of her jaw swollen and tinged with a sickening violet.

An oxygen tube rested beneath her nose. Her hands, God, her hands, so small on the white sheets.

Beside her sat Charlie, a bandage above his eyebrow and dried blood at his temple. His scrubs were smeared with something dark and his posture was wrecked, like someone had folded him in half with grief.

He looked up when he saw me. I was shocked to see him crying, though perhaps I shouldn't have been. Exhaustion and regret were etched across his face and his expression screamed I couldn't protect her .

“I stayed until you got here,” he said quietly, voice thick.

My throat felt raw as I stepped closer, one foot at a time, afraid I’d collapse if I moved too fast. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from her. I had never seen her look this fragile. Not even during labor. Not during her hardest nights when anxiety kept her pacing the halls.

“What did the doctors say?” I asked, my voice gravel.

Charlie stood then, his eyes on her as well. “They are monitoring her. The baby is still... there. But they are watching for signs of trauma. Placental abruption. Bleeding.”

The words didn’t land right, scattering inside of me.

“I should have seen her coming,” he added, pain bleeding into every syllable. “I should have- ”

“Stop,” I said, too tired to be angry now. “You called me. You stayed with her. Thank you.”

Charlie didn’t reply to that. He nodded once and slipped past me, out the door, leaving me alone with her.

Exhaustion tore through me as I dropped into the chair beside the bed, my fingers hovering above hers, afraid to touch her.

“Sloane,” I whispered, but she didn’t stir.

My eyes burned and I blinked hard, reaching at last for her hand. It was cool against the crisp sheets of the bed. Instinctively I wrapped both of mine around it as if I could will her to wake.

“I’m here,” I said, not knowing if she could hear me. “I’m here now. I swear to any god who will listen, that I will never leave your side again.”

Her hand didn’t squeeze mine back. I stayed there, rooted to the spot, whispering promises into the sterile air, clinging to the hope that somehow, despite all the damage, I hadn’t already lost everything.

The room quieted again, except for the gentle beeping of the monitor and the soft sound of Sloane’s breathing. I stayed still, not daring to move, as if any shift might undo the fragile thread tethering her to peace .

A quiet knock at the door broke through the stillness.

I straightened up as a doctor in hunter green scrubs stepped in, clipboard in hand, a plastic face shield over his mask.

His eyes, visible above the PPE, were calm but tired.

I recalled this weary look from my previous life on the face of every frontline worker.

“Mr. Shaw?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Yes. That’s me. And my wife?” I said quickly, standing. My hands were shaking. “Is everything okay?”

He took a step further into the room, glancing at Sloane.

“We’ve reviewed the scans and lab work. She has a mild concussion and several bruised ribs, but no internal bleeding.

The baby…” He paused, eyes softening,“…the baby is fine. The fetal heartbeat is strong. No signs of placental damage or distress. That’s rare, given the trauma she experienced. She’s lucky.”

The breath I had been holding all came out of me in one ragged exhale. My legs went weak, and I gripped the edge of the bed to steady myself.

“Thank God,” I said with a shaky exhale. I looked over at Sloane again, pale and still but alive, intact, and carrying our child.

Still carrying our child.

The doctor nodded. “She’ll be groggy for a while, but we’ll continue to monitor both of them closely. We’ll want to keep her for observation for at least twenty-four hours. And she’ll need rest. No stress.”

I nodded. “Right. Yes. Whatever she needs.”

He took a step back toward the door. “You can stay, but one visitor only, due to current restrictions. If anyone else tries to enter, they’ll be turned away.”

“No one else is coming,” I said, my voice dark with meaning .

The doctor studied me for a moment, then gave a quiet nod and left the room.

The door clicked softly shut behind him, and I sank back into the chair, this time cradling my face in my hands. Relief pulsed through me and the storm that had been raging inside me felt as if it was finally breaking. She was okay. The baby was okay. For now, that was enough.

Sloane shifted faintly in her sleep, and I leaned forward, brushing her hair back from her face.

“I’ll be right here,” I whispered.

I didn’t know how long I sat there.