It was the first time I’d claimed the title. And right now, it felt as if I had no right to it.

The man nodded. “I’m Dr. Martín. I’ve been taking care of Ms. Foley. She’s in serious but stable condition in our ICU.”

“What does that mean?” The words serious and stable were polar opposites in my mind.

“It was touch and go. Her heart was stopped for some time, but we got it beating again. After some tests, it’s evident she has hypoxia. Oxygen deficiency in the brain.”

“But she’s going to be okay.” It wasn’t a question. It was a demand.

“The next day or two will tell us more. Right now, she’s in a coma. She has a ventilator breathing for her, and we’re tracking her stats carefully. But I can take you to see her if you’d like.”

“Yes.” The word came out as a whisper.

Walker clapped me on the shoulder. “I’ll update everyone else.”

“Okay.”

I could only manage these one-word answers because my brain was spiraling. Anna’s heart stopping. Coma. Ventilator.

I followed the doctor down the hall to an elevator. “What are her chances?”

The doors opened, and we stepped inside. “Her chances for survival are good. Her brain function is in the normal range. But you need to be prepared. We have no way of knowing what damage has been done until Ms. Foley wakes up.”

“Damage?” I rasped.

“She could have neurological impairments after this. Symptoms similar to a stroke. Or the reaction could be milder. Insomnia, short-term amnesia.”

Endless possibilities circled in my mind as the doctor led me down another hall. We stopped at a hand sanitizer pump outside a set of double doors. Dr. Martín sprayed some into his hands, and I did the same. As he opened one of the doors, a cacophony of beeping sounds filled the air, punctuated by what almost sounded like gasps.

A number of rooms surrounded what appeared to be a nurses’ station. Martín gestured to it. “Your wife will have ‘round-the-clock monitoring.”

I should’ve been relieved by the knowledge, but it made me sick. She needed that monitoring because I’d left her. Let her down in the worst way imaginable.

“She’s right in here. Don’t be put off by the machines, she’s doing really well, all things considered.”

“Thank you.” I stepped through the open door, and all air left my lungs. Anna. She looked impossibly small in the bed. So many wires and tubes. Ones connected to electrodes on her head. Ones dipping beneath her hospital gown. To her mouth. Her arm. One hand had a splint.

Everything burned. My eyes. My chest. But I pushed forward. One step, and then another. I lowered myself into the chair beside her bed. The hand resting on top of the covers had only an oxygen monitor clamped to her finger.