He put the letter down, tears blurring his vision. This was it. She was gone. Again.

And suddenly it was there, right in front of him, the one memory of Lauren he’d been trying to bury. He couldn’t turn away from it anymore, couldn’t shove it down, couldn’t avoid it.

Suddenly, he was right back there again.

The last day of Lauren’s life . . .

The last hour . . .

It was time to remember that day. Then, maybe, he could let her go.

35

Lauren

No time left

February 16

THE PNEUMONIA CAME fast and furious, a thief in the night, robbing her of air. She was dimly aware of feeling awful, her chest heavy. Two days ago, on their third anniversary, she’d been fine.

In a matter of hours, that changed. She’d been tired when she went to bed, sure, but somewhere in the night, true exhaustion set in. She pushed the covers back, too hot, then fell back asleep, the fatigue heavy and black. She coughed, her back spasming, but even that sharp, twisting pain wasn’t enough to keep her awake. Her chest was working, trying to get enough air. She could hear the noise of her own breathing—gasping—but she was so, so tired.

“Honey? Lauren?”

With an effort, she opened her heavy eyes.

“I think you’re sick,” he said, and she nodded, her head like an anvil. A sharp pain stabbed her on each inhale. He clipped the O2 monitor to her forefinger and stared at it, then put on the stethoscope and listened to her lungs. “Shit,” he said. “Can you cough, honey? Get some gunk up?”

This was not their first go-round with pneumonia, after all. He pulled her upright and she tried, coughing into a tissue. Gross. Nasty, thick mucus the color of moss. Not a great sign. More coughing, accompanied by a wrenching back spasm. Josh massaged the muscle and increased her oxygen flow.

After her first round of pneumonia, they’d bought a percussion vest, a heavy, battery-operated thing that looked like a life jacket. Josh clipped it onto her now, and the thudding began; it was designed to loosen phlegm and help her clear her lungs. It felt like she was being punched, and she nearly tipped over with exhaustion. She tried to breathe deeply but the stabbing pain cut her off.

“Try huffing, sweetheart,” he said, phone to his ear. “Hey, Dr. Bennett, it’s Joshua Park. Lauren’s got pneumonia again, I think. O2 sat is seventy-nine, lungs have crackles and she’s sweaty and feverish.”

Lauren got some more crap out of her lungs, but it was scary, how much shit was in there.

Then she was asleep again, even with the vest pounding away. She was aware that Josh was carrying her, putting her in the car, since it would be faster than the ambulance. He held her hand as he drove; it was only a few minutes.