The hospital room smelled like antiseptic, cold coffee, and the thin plastic scent of new bandages.
Rebecca Walker learned the rhythm of that room before she learned how to sleep in it.
The monitor beeped beside her bed every few seconds.
The air vent clicked above her head.
The fluorescent light gave off a faint buzz that seemed louder at night, when the hallway emptied and the nurses lowered their voices.
Her legs were locked in plaster casts from her thighs down, heavy enough that she sometimes dreamed she was trapped under wet cement.
Her ribs ached every time she breathed too deeply.
There were stitches hidden under her hairline, a bruise fading along her shoulder, and a hospital wristband that had rubbed a raw line into her swollen wrist.
Three weeks earlier, a speeding car had torn through a normal afternoon and turned it into broken glass, sirens, and a hospital intake form stamped 6:42 PM.
Rebecca remembered the smell of hot asphalt after the crash.
She remembered someone telling her not to move.
She remembered asking for Caleb, because that was what wives did when their world split open.
They asked for their husbands.
