Sirens echo, muffled by the oxygen hissing and the ambulance rattling. My abdomen rips with pain, like I’m an acupuncturist’s practice dummy, and he’s getting it very, very wrong. Lightheadedness brings bile rising in my throat.

“I’m sorry,” I blurt, “but I might be sick.”

The paramedic raises my mask and holds a plastic tub to my face as I roll gingerly to my side. God, it hurts.

Nothing comes out, but fresh agony surges across my midsection for the effort. “Sorry,” I manage again.

“No apologies. It’s like I tell my brothers,” he says. “A body must what a body must.”

Grady’s voice pulls me from my dry-heaving, and I picture his close-knit family—him with his four brothers, hocking loogies or farting or whatever gross things boys do when they’re together. I’ve never had that. Even Ashe and I still keep those things private—proper decorum, Cora calls it.

Now, with my guts open and stomach churning, I wonder what she’d think of me. Or if you can really claim to belong to someone without being privy to their farts and vomit and whatever else.

Oh, my God! Why am I thinking about that right now? Is this delirium?

He eases me back on the gurney, dabs my face with a towel, and replaces the oxygen mask. “Just breathe, okay? You’re safe. You’re in good hands. Everything’s okay. Breathe.”

“Truth?”

“Truth. That’s our deal.”

He’s surprisingly gentle and comforting for someone so gruff—something I once experienced firsthand, though he clearly doesn’t remember. I do as he says. Relax, Marnie. What’s done can’t be undone. But at the mercy of my circumstances, it’s impossible to calm down. I’m reminded of times with Mom, when I felt helpless and desperate. The more I think about it…

Missing my wedding.

Upsetting Ashe and his family.

Disappointing our guests.

The money lost on food and flowers.

My dress. Oh, my dress.

The honeymoon. We’re supposed to leave Sunday morning.

… the worse I feel, like the knife hit my heart, too, cutting it into pieces. Tears slip from my eyes—I never cry. Never. It’s the life code I adopted at fifteen—no frowns, no fears, no tears. But aches and a sharp gnawing burn my midsection. Excruciating pain is the one understandable exception to my no-tears rule.

I got stabbed. I could die.