I know the sharp twisting pain all too well and hate seeing it spread across Sarah’s face. I bend over the now lowered rail to try and comfort her in some way. We lock hands together for several long moments before another technician comes to wheel us back through the labyrinth to Sarah’s ER room.

The moment we enter, Hank engulfs Sarah. His long body bending over the rail as though it’s not even there, swallowing my arm that’s still wrapped with Sarah’s. Their embrace brings a level of comfort to me, seeing the support that Hank provides her with, like he’s trying to leach every ounce of sadness from her.

Releasing my grip, I work to extricate my hand without interrupting their moment, but Sarah’s hand clamps onto mine before I can pull away.

“Please don’t go,” she begs as a fresh set of tears roll down both of our cheeks.

I nod and return to where I was standing moments ago.

Due to the bars closing, a new crowd of patients are brought in. We stand and wait for what feels like days. Sarah cries and grieves, vocalizing her concerns that she may have caused the tragedy.

“No.” The word is firm and sounds much stronger than I feel as I take a step closer to her, stopping her words and thoughts from being completed. Sometimes words need to be said aloud to accept them and clear your conscience; other ones should never be spoken, because once they’re out, they can never be erased. “You didn’t do this. It wasn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong. Nothing.”

Hank gallantly stops her when she starts fretting about things and how they’ll tell their boys. Her mind’s locked on to thoughts of loss and sadness, and I’m grateful again that Hank is here, because my own thoughts barrel down the same path, and I don’t know that I can stop them. A movement out of the corner of my eye draws my attention to Max leaning against the far wall, staring at me. He’s been here the entire time, standing silent as a shadow.

When Sarah starts to cry so hard her words are indiscernible I have to look away, not just because of her obvious pain, but also from seeing the amount of love that Hank responds with. It is evident in the conviction of his words and it’s etched across every feature of his face, but the way his upper body curves over her, shielding and supporting her from what can be a very cruel world, leaves me no doubts of his love.

A doctor finally appears and begins discussing what we already know: Sarah had a miscarriage. He goes on to explain the need to test her hormone levels over the next few weeks to ensure that they return to normal and what to expect.

As the doctor wraps up, I quietly excuse myself, desperate to get away for a moment to try and clear the memories from my mind.

I walk down an empty hall outside of the ER with my arms raised, both palms resting on the top of my head as I soundlessly place one foot in front of the other.

I find a vending machine with a small bank of chairs and wander over to them. Resting my back against the wall so I’m between the chairs and the vending machine, I slowly sink to tiled floor with my knees pressed tightly against my chest. My eyes squeeze shut and I cover them with the heels of my hands.

Thoughts flood my mind, the same thoughts that have been haunting me all year: What would my life be like right now if I hadn’t run? If my dad hadn’t died? Where would I be? What would my relationship with my mom be like? All of the thoughts and images that I work tirelessly to stifle hurt individually, yet they hurt even more together because they all keep ending at the same point tonight, reminding me of Kitty because we’ve discussed each of these hurdles with some level of detail.

Lost in thought, I jump when a hand rests on my knee.

“Why don’t we go home? You need to get some rest.” Max is squatted down in front of me, looking as tired as I feel. “They just released Sarah. She wanted me to thank you. Hank’s taking her to our mom’s so she can be with the boys.”

“She’s gone?” I stand up, nearly knocking Max over in the process. I’ve failed her.

“Let’s go home,” he repeats.

We set off down the long hall that I had wandered down. Max places his hand on my lower back as we approach an intersection of hallways. I don’t verbalize my objection. Instead, I take a few steps to increase the gap between us as we continue toward the waiting room.

“I didn’t figure Kendall would mind if they borrowed her car to drive back to the house to get their rig,” Max says.

She wouldn’t of course, but this news sets me into a panic that I don’t have the energy to fight.

When we reach the doors to the parking lot, the air is filled with a damp mist, and I slow my steps to allow Max to lead me to where he parked. His hand brushes against me again, making my body go rigid.

“Don’t touch me!” I hiss in warning, pulling away and glaring at his offending hand.

“Ace…”

“No, Max!” I cry, shaking my head in frustration.

He surrenders with a heavy sigh, and I wait for him to walk a few paces before following him.

Although my arms and legs are covered in goose bumps, I roll down the passenger window. I need the fresh air and small allowance of additional space.

When he pulls into the driveway, I wait for him to get out and unlock the door before I follow. I need to create a physical barrier between us right now because my emotions feel so raw and overpowering, I’m concerned I won’t be able to suppress them, and I don’t know what that will entail. I don’t know if I will scream, or throw things, or what. I’ve never lost control, at least not with pain and anger. I’ve lost control in love before—Max had evoked those feelings from me—and tonight, I fear he may be my undoing, and I’m not ready for it.

Max either understands my need to be alone, or is in need of his own solitude and goes straight up the stairs to his room. The isolation triggers something inside of me that has me gripping my cell phone and heading to the backyard with determination in each of my steps. As much as I want to be alone right now, I don’t want to be alone with myself.

The phone rings four times before she answers in a hoarse, sleep-ridden voice.

“Are you dying?” I demand.

“Harper?” Kitty asks.

“Answer me. Are. You. Dying?” The words come out spaced, not because I’m trying to emphasize them, but because I can’t lace them all together again.

“Yes, Harper, I’m dying.”

“Why?” I whisper as my body tingles with chills, and tears fill my eyes before instantly running over my lower lids.

“Why is another person that you care for leaving you?”

I don’t respond. My throat feels so constricted that I don’t think I physically can.

“The only inevitable fact of life is that we’re going to die. If they don’t leave us, we leave them. It’s reality.”

I hate her words more than anything I’ve ever heard.

I hang up.

I don’t know how long I’ve been on my hands and knees, scrubbing the bathroom tile when Max grabs my wrist. My hands feel slimy and raw from repeatedly dunking them in the bleach, and my lungs ache from the stench.

“It’s clean,” he says as I pull my hand from his.

“It’s clean!” he repeats, grabbing my arm again. His voice is calm and filled with concern, and for some reason it only makes anger replace my pain.

“I’m not done.” I try to pull away again, but this time his grasp tightens.

“You’re done.” He grabs the sponge from my hand and drops it into the bucket of bleach with a splash.

Scowling, I turn my back to him and move to grab the sponge again. His arm wraps around my middle and lifts me, pulling me from the bathroom.

“Stop it, Max!” I yell, thrashing until he releases me. “I don’t want you to touch me!” I shove against his chest with both hands to free myself from where he has me pinned against the wall.