Having navigated these corridors once before, when Dad had his emergency surgery after his heart attack, it comes back to me as I follow them at a distance. I’d gone with him in the ambulance, so I’d been there when he woke up, groggy and confused. But when his world made sense again, he gave me his widest smile, gripping my hand with his thick, calloused fingers.

“Son, I’m sorry I put you through that, but I’m glad you were there. You saved my life,” he said, tears budding in the corners of his heavy-lidded eyes. “It’s good having you home.”

Home. The word felt strange when he said it. Sure, Seagrove is where I grew up, and Tripp Family Farm is like a member of the family. But returning to it after my life blew up didn’t feel like coming home at all. It felt like a penance.

Then.

Now.

The nurse escorts them into a room with the word Strange scribbled on an exterior whiteboard. Wes enters last and doesn’t bother closing the door. I hover against the wall, just outside, desperate to see her and know she’s okay.

Please, let her be okay.

I peek through the opening, over their shoulders, and between their bodies.

I remember the crowded hospital room Dad was in after his surgery. Despite the traumatic circumstances that landed him there, the room was filled with laughter, love, and relief, and everyone felt happy seeing his smile and hearing him crack jokes.

There’s none of that here. There’s only tension and anxiety.

Another sickening feeling sweeps me when I see her—copper hair against the white pillow, her face pale, her arm and chest wired with tubes and monitors. Her wedding dress is gone, surely filling a biohazard bag by now, and the usual hospital garb swallows her like a fallen tent. Her make-up has been washed away, revealing a dusting of freckles under her eyes. She looks young, weak, and pained, but Ashe’s arrival brings a wide smile, lighting her up.

“Marnie,” he cries out, going to her side. “Are you okay?”

“Getting there. Sorry about the wedding.”

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out.”

Then, he must kiss or embrace her because she says, “Easy, Ashe.”

“Oh, sorry, babe.”

“Doctor, this is my fiancé, Ashe.” Her voice sounds tired but still cheery somehow. “And his parents, Cora and Wes.”

“Miss Strange⁠—”

“Oh, call me Marnie, please.”

“Marnie, I want to review your surgery and the extent of your injuries—private medical information. It might be best for everyone to wait outside.”

“It’s fine. They’re the only family I’ve got,” she responds with forced cheer.

I peek around the corner to see the white-coated doctor sitting on a rolling stool beside her, tablet in hand. In my experience, doctors don’t hang out with patients after surgeries. They check in, read charts, and disappear.