Pain wakes me, sharp and unforgiving, like electric shocks ripping over my midsection. It’s a wonder I fell asleep at all. Sunkist meows near my feet, like she can sense my distress. It feels like I’ve been run over by a motorcycle, and the driver keeps spinning the wheels on top of me. I groan, trying to sit up.

After he left, I initiated all my comforts. I carefully changed out of my ridiculous sundress and flip-flops to warm pajamas and slippers. I managed the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. A mug of chamomile tea sits mostly gone on the coffee table. At the time, it felt good to move around and be here, where I’m most comfortable.

Now, I regret leaving, the hurt so debilitating that my eyes water, and I fully expect to spend the night moaning and wincing. I’ve never known pain like this. Not even close. Not even on that day, as if the trauma and shock subdued my nerve sensors.

When the doorknob jiggles, announcing Grady’s return, I nearly call out, “Go away!”

My cats’ scrutinizing glares are bad enough. Their perked ears and rapt big eyes prove their heightened anxieties, and add tension to my pain. I don’t need other witnesses, especially if I break down crying.

I hate crying.

But I can’t find my voice or the nerve to be so mean. I refuse to let my pain become someone else’s. Grady overflows with regret as it is.

With a breathless groan, I sit up, gripping my cane like a stress ball.

He pushes inside, arms loaded with reusable totes from Food Lion, the tags still hanging from their handles. Food Lion has the best reusable totes, and he splurged on the heavy-duty ones.

Elbowing the door shut, his bright blue eyes run over me. “Pain level?”

“Um, rising.”

“Give me a number.”

“Eight.”

He drops the bags at the door and digs through them. Within a minute, he’s beside me, handing over pills and water. I sling them into my throat and guzzle the water to push them down.

But queasiness soon joins the pain, making me think they’ll come back up.

His hand rests softly on my back. “Deep breaths.”

“Hurts,” I mutter, unable to hold it in.

“I know.”

“Please, go. I’ll be fine. I want to be alone.”

“I know, but indulge me. Please,” he says softly. “You should eat. Soup, salad, sandwich, or junk food?”

I want to argue. He’s done enough and surely has better things to do with his time than babysit me. But I don’t have the energy. “Um, soup.”

“Good. Keep breathing.”

He leaves me for the discarded bags, hefting them into the kitchen. Wincing with pain, I grab the remote and turn up the volume on Antiques Roadshow UK, if only to distract me from the intense pain and the man in my kitchen.