A perforated bowel, the nurse told me.
Four hours of surgery.
A little more and I wouldn’t have woken up at all.
Her badge said Cindy Jernigan.
“Your surgeon will be in to check on you,” she said. “Dr. Treadwell. He’s new, but he’s good. He wouldn’t leave your side last night.”
When I woke the second time, the light through the blinds had turned gold.
The room was quiet except for the monitor.
A man in navy scrubs stood at the foot of my bed, studying my chart.
“Ms. Gilchrist,” he said. “How’s the pain?”
“Manageable,” I lied.
He stepped closer to check my IV.
When he leaned over, something slipped out of his collar and swung on a thin chain.
A small silver cross, worn smooth.
I knew it before it stopped moving.
I knew the notch in the bottom arm.
For one second, I couldn’t remember how to breathe.
