Amy scooted up on her pillows, winced at the pain shooting down her left side. “What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Well, I think he’s camping out on the island,” Revvy said. “But if they find out, they’ll arrest him again. He’s kind of freaked out about what happened to you. He blames himself—said he turned around for one minute and you were gone.”

“It wasn’t his fault. It was all mine.” Tears filled her eyes.

Norah leaned down and grabbed Amy’s hand. “We’ll let you rest now. We’ll take care of everything. Nick still had the camera. The photos you took are being analyzed by the historical society.”

Amy nodded. They left believing in her brave and commendable effort to save Oystertip.

Though it seemed a lifetime, a constant battle, for only three days she faded in and out of consciousness before the experts told her all was now medically well; she was ready to go home. Little did they know about the sickness in her soul.

Phil arrived at the hospital with a pair of jeans and a black cashmere sweater; he knew these were her favorites. She sat on the bed and turned from him, slowly attempting to dress herself, slipping the underwear on below her open-in-the-back hospital gown. As she lifted her arms to put on her bra, she remembered the discarded white lace on the dusty floor of a crumbling home, and tried to stay her tears.

Phil reached for her. “Here, let me. The doc said your ribs would hurt for a while.” He pulled the bra down over her back, hooked it in place.

She wept harder, the tears ripping past the pain of her ribs, into the deeper place of suffering.

Phil crawled up on the bed, turned her around. “Here, I’ll slip your sweater over your head.”

“No.”

She wanted to explain that she did not deserve this, that he should not be here loving her, helping her, pulling clothing over her stained body. His quick turn from her told her he took it as a rejection. She sought the strength to tell him she wanted his help, needed his touch, but did not deserve it. Yet all she found was the same bottomless, whirling cold.

She slid her feet into her jeans and stood to pull them up. The pants gaped an inch away from her stomach. She turned to Phil; he was gone. The nurse stood in his place.

She set a chart on the bedside table. “Your husband went to get the car, sign your discharge papers. It’ll be about an hour.”

“Thank you.” Amy fell back on the bed, leaned her head on the pillow with her feet still on the floor, and closed her eyes. She wanted Phil back in the room.