When I wake up, the wall clock tells me two hours have passed. Someone has placed a blanket over me, and a small duffel bag rests on the chair. Michael, probably. I feel an ache in my chest, as if my ex-husband has left me all over again. Crazy. I’m going crazy.

I don’t care.

I’m still clutching the first-aid supplies. That fortifies me, returns my sense of purpose. I climb out of bed; my legs feel stronger this time and my breathing remains even.

I peel off my flimsy hospital gown, inspecting the bandage on my side. Dark pinpricks of rust. Old blood. Not fresh. Good enough for me.

I work carefully, wrapping the gauze around my rib cage, pulling it tight with each pass, until the constriction forces me to elongate my back and breathe in shallow gasps. Finally, I secure the binding, stabilizing my ribs and easing the sharpest edge of my pain.

Next I explore the duffel bag. Michael has thrown together the basics: sweats, underwear, socks, flip-flops, toiletries. I have a sense of déjà vu, then it comes to me: The duffel bag holds the same items as the hospital bag I packed for Chelsea’s birth, and the one I’d planned to pack for Evan’s birth, had I not gone into premature labor.

I struggle again. Wanting to finger each item as if it’s a talisman of the life I can’t give up, of the woman I’d hoped to be. I’ll sit here. Cry pathetically with my sweatpants on my lap.

The wash of self-pity disgusts me. I’m sick of crying. I’m sick of loving a man who left me. And I’m sick of nurturing a child who drove a knife between my ribs, then phoned to tell me he’d get it right next time.

The life I thought I was going to lead is over. It’s time for a new beginning, a new woman. One who walks white sandy beaches in a long purple peasant skirt, with a salt-rimmed margarita in hand. Maybe I’ll meet a young, handsome surfer dude. We’ll have sex under the palm trees and get sand in interesting places. I’ll watch the sun rise while listening to the call of the gulls. I’ll think only of myself and what I want to do every minute of every day. And I’ll like it.

I have lost my mind.

Fuck it. I get dressed.

It hurts like hell. I use the pain to stiffen my resolve. Underwear. Sweatpants. T-shirt. Flip-flops. I brush my teeth and comb my hair. World, look out.

I’m sweating. My side burns. I drink the water left in the cup by my melted ice.

I have no money, no passport, no sanity. Not exactly a recipe for success.