By morning, Clara Hayes had convinced herself the night at St. Jude’s had been a fever dream brought on by exhaustion, low blood sugar, and the particular kind of despair that came from counting coins under fluorescent lights.
She woke to Owen coughing in the next room.
Not the soft cough he made when the air was cold. Not the teasing little bark he used when he wanted attention. This was a deep, tearing cough that made Clara throw off her blanket and stumble across their tiny apartment before her mind had fully left sleep.
“Owen?”
He was sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand braced against the mattress, the other pressed to his chest. His inhaler lay on the floor, just out of reach.
Clara grabbed it and shook it hard.
“Breathe in,” she said, keeping her voice calm though her own lungs had locked.
Owen obeyed. Once. Twice.
After a minute, his shoulders loosened.
“I’m fine,” he rasped.
“You’re not fine.”
“I’m always a little not fine.”
