Maybe he’s right—men do seem desperate for escape. But I hate watching him escape, hate his smug, self-righteous assurances of what’s essential for living fully and well. I hate his cute kids and young—but not too young—wife, hate his entire rebranded life. I click his story, confident in the anonymity of my fake account: Jake at an outdoor gym, flipping giant tires; Jake in the backyard of his renovated craftsman, roughhousing with his twin boys; a sped-up clip of a woman’s hands, tossing a summer salad in a wooden bowl; and a sponsored series at a hotel pool, tagged by a GIF that says staycation and the name of a nearby resort. I click through videos: Jake’s twins wearing inflatable swimmies and splashing; Jake’s wife in a sunhat, sipping a mimosa; and Jake himself, selfie mode, his wet hair dripping, his lips pursed and serious. I try to pinch the screen and zoom in to see him close, as if his face will prove he hasn’t changed. But the story feature won’t let me and then the story ends. I shut the phone, close my eyes.

When I open them, it’s 5 A.M. and the alarm is screaming. Light cleaves the blinds and the TV tells a new story, the words Reunion Episode in outrageous font at the bottom of the screen. I must have slept. Soon I’ll sleep again. Anesthesia, the purest rest from which I’ll wake, reborn. Or I won’t. I am numb, ready. I gather my phone, my wallet, zip myself into a sweatshirt and leave for the Aesthetica Center, where Dr. Perrault waits to return me to myself.

12.

The ICU bathroom was single-use, strewn with seat covers and toilet paper. I stood at the sink, opened Leah’s message: “I’m running a race in Oregon this weekend. I’ll change my ticket, come a night early, see Naurene.”

I wrote, “you run professionally now?” and thumbed through sleeping arrangements in my head. Leah’s back against my back. Her breath, rising and falling, a rhythm I could hang on to.