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together, the dancing
light in her eyes saying she was suppressing laughter. She took Derian’s hand,
hers smaller, soft and warm and firm. Without thinking, Derian threaded her
fingers through Emily’s. The fit was so natural, she was momentarily
disoriented. She wasn’t a hand-holder, but the flow of heat from Emily’s touch
steadied her. Filing that disconcerting thought away as an anomaly due to the
circumstances, she followed the medical resident down the hall to where he
slapped a big red button the size of a dinner plate on the wall. The foreboding
double metal doors with the tiny windows that blocked all view of what went on
inside swung open with a hiss. She almost expected a warning sign above it: Abandon All Hope …
    Derian shuddered. She was more tired than
she’d thought.
    Emily’s fingers tightened on hers. She was
pale, and her eyes had widened, as if she too sensed the despair radiating from
the sterile surroundings.
    Her own discomfort fading in the face of
Emily’s, Derian leaned close, her mouth near Emily’s ear. She caught the
fragrance of coconut and vanilla. “Are you okay?”
    “Yes,” Emily said, her voice tight. “I’m
fine. Just a bad memory. Don’t worry.”
    Derian wasn’t convinced. Emily looked shaken,
and her distress tugged at Derian, awakening a fierce desire to ease Emily’s
unhappiness that felt so right she didn’t bother to question it. “I’m right
here.”
    Emily turned away from the too-bright lights
and righted herself in Derian’s intense, sympathetic gaze. Derian’s deep, sure
voice—her comforting words—shut out the hum of machines and jumble of sounds
that struck her like a tidal wave, threatening to pull her under. She wasn’t
used to being championed or protected by anyone and, for a few seconds, she
basked in the comfort of Derian’s unexpected chivalry. Feeling stronger, and
slightly embarrassed, she squeezed Derian’s hand and reluctantly loosened her
grip. “Thanks.”
    Derian smiled, some of her tension easing
away. “No problem.”
    The ICU was a long narrow room with a wide
central aisle. Beds occupied one wall, separated from one another by heavy
white curtains. Opposite them, a bustling nurses’ station with a high counter
that held beeping monitors, stacks of charts, and racks of test tubes bearing
blood samples was staffed by a handful of men and women. Emily averted her
gaze. Cold sweat trickled down between her shoulder blades, but she was steady
again. Over a decade since she’d been in a place like this, but the memories
were as fresh as yesterday. Her father and Pam in adjacent beds. Her mother
gone. She released Derian’s hand completely, afraid she would transmit too much
in that touch, afraid to lean too much on the strength Derian so casually
offered.
    Burns pulled back the curtain at the end of a
hospital bed situated in the middle of the long line of beds. A tall, narrow
table stood at the end of it covered with printouts and more tubes of blood.
Henrietta lay beneath white sheets folded down to midchest, her exposed arms
punctured at intervals with intravenous catheters. Red blood flowed out of the
snaking tubes, tinted yellow fluids flowed in. Her eyes were closed, her
breathing almost imperceptible beneath the covers, her body dwarfed by the IV
stands and monitors bolted to the walls on either side of the bed. Tracings
revealed the steady blips of the EKG, the smooth rhythmic peaks and valleys of
blood pressure, the steady line of oxygen levels. All so familiar and so
foreign at the same time.
    Emily forced herself to take it all in. She
owed it to Henrietta to lessen the horror by sharing it. After she focused and
let herself see, she whispered, “She’s breathing on her own.”
    “Yes. We took the breathing tube out a couple
hours ago. She’s too alert to tolerate it,” Burns said softly.
    “That’s so encouraging.” Emily glanced at
Derian, whose dark gaze was fixed on Henrietta’s face. Of course the