The memory thrust itself to the tip of her consciousness. Her eyes flew open and she stared at Phil, at her husband. The set, tired look on his face expressed betrayal: her betrayal.

An animalistic groan came from below the roiling shame. She closed her eyes and could not look at his face again. The shame was worse than the physical pain and she scurried like a rat to a deep, dark place. She couldn’t come back. She couldn’t rise to the bright light, to Phil, to deception. Molly’s words echoed across her consciousness—It’s not in her . . . to do.

She reached for the quilt of rationalization and excuses she’d sewn for herself over the past few months; she needed it now to cover her guilt. She’d fashioned it stitch by stitch: They were different, they had never really broken their vows, they were cheated out of their life together, she was taken for granted, she needed him, there was a purpose. Yet all she found now was an infested, decayed quilt: useless and rotten. She was freezing cold—and empty.

She shivered. Phil’s hand covered hers; he called the nurse for another blanket and she began to weep.

He leaned over her. “What hurts, Amy?”

“Everything. Oh, God, everything,” she said, her eyes still closed. The hospital door scraped; the weight of a blanket fell on her body. Didn’t they know they could drop a thousand blankets on her, and she would still be freezing, deadly freezing?

Phil whispered, “I think she may need some more pain meds.”

A high-pitched Georgia accent answered him. “It’s not time yet. Another hour.”

Phil sighed. “Thank you.”

She opened her eyes, looked at her husband and said the first and the last thing—the only thing—she could find within herself, “I’m sorry.” The words came out in a whisper.

Phil’s eyes filled with tears. He squeezed her hand, did not answer. But she wasn’t looking for an answer—she wasn’t seeking absolution. There couldn’t be any, she knew.

She closed her eyes again, unable to tolerate his pain, her own too great for comprehension. She allowed the darkness to envelop her again and she slipped into its cold and blank tunnel.

The pain eddied and flowed as doctors, nurses and visitors came and went from the room. Amy brought her frayed and shattered self to the surface for the sake of her family: Molly wanting to play gin rummy, Jack needing to tell her about his chemistry test, and Phil’s hand on hers, always his hand.