She lowered her eyes.
“Since morning.”
“What morning?”
No answer.
“Emily.”
She tried to pull her hand back, but there was no strength behind it.
The blanket shifted.
The clipboard slid farther out.
I saw the top page.
Hospital intake form.
Name: Emily Harris.
Date: June 13.
Arrival time: 6:18 AM.
Emergency contact: Michael Harris.
My phone number was still there.
My old apartment address had been crossed out in blue ink.
I stared at it so long the letters seemed to come apart on the page.
“You listed me?” I asked.
She closed her eyes.
“I never changed it.”
The words were almost nothing.
They hit like a confession.
Before I could answer, a nurse in navy scrubs stepped out from the nurses’ station holding a sealed envelope and a small plastic bag containing Emily’s personal things.
“Emily?” she called gently. “The doctor wants to go over the next steps, but we need someone with you for the discharge conversation.”
Emily’s face changed.
Not dramatically.
That would have been easier.
Her expression simply collapsed, as if someone had removed the final support beam from a house already leaning.
“Michael,” she whispered, “please don’t make this harder.”
I looked at the nurse.
I looked at the envelope.
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