It was losing control of the story.
He had survived by being the narrator.
Now someone else was speaking.
I opened the door.
The hallway seemed too bright.
I stepped out first, then Kenneth. Behind us, Melinda pushed the stroller silently, Elliot awake now and blinking at the ceiling lights. Connor followed last, his phone already in his hand.
At the elevator, Kenneth touched my elbow gently.
“Are you all right?”
“No.”
He nodded. “That’s a reasonable answer.”
I looked down the pediatric corridor, at the nurses’ station where my colleagues were pretending not to watch too obviously.
“I need ten minutes,” I said. “Then I’ll go back to work.”
“Kirsten.”
I met his eyes.
“You don’t have to prove you’re strong by pretending this didn’t happen.”
The words nearly undid me.
Because that was exactly what I had been about to do.
Chart notes. Staff meeting. Patient rounds. Smile. Wash hands. Keep moving.
