“Shh,” he says. “Sleep.” The blanket is tucked up around my shoulders again, warm but not as warm as when he touches me, and I feel myself drift even though I feel him move away. I want to tell him to stay with me. And when I manage to momentarily open my eyes in the dim light coming from a machine to my right, I see him sitting in the chair across from mine, one ankle crossed over the other knee, eyes dark and intent, watching me.

I wake up because I’m hungry. Ravenous. Someone is humming, and the light is suddenly too bright.

I groan, turn away, blink, but then it’s dimmed again.

“There she is. I know it’s early, but you need to wake up. You need to eat. Doctor’s orders. Come now, love.”

Opening my eyes, I see the needles and tube sticking out of one arm. “What…?” But it’s when I try to pull at my arms that the real panic sets in.

The door opens, closes.

I look up, meet his eyes, and freeze. He freezes too.

“You can go, nurse,” Santiago says, not taking his eyes off me.

“I’ll just give her—”

“I said go.”

My gaze shifts to the elderly nurse standing beside my bed, looking up at Santiago’s face, riveted by it.

He’s wearing a hat, keeping it in shadow. At least half of it. It’s daytime. I see the light coming in from around the blinds. It’s not like him to be out during the day.

“I should make sure she eats, sir.”

“I am capable of taking care of my wife. My family.”

Family? That’s an odd way to say it.

The nurse nods, glancing once at me before hurrying away. I watch her go, and when the door closes, I turn slowly back to find Santiago’s eyes still locked on me.

I don’t speak right away. I can’t. I try to pull my hands up again, but the leather restraints don’t allow me to move.

“What’s happening?”

He pulls up the chair and sits down, taking off his hat and setting it on the table beside my bed. My heart races, my stomach in knots as I watch him roll the tray containing my breakfast closer, something dark in his eyes, something hard in the way his hand is wrapped around the tray.

“You’re going to eat. That’s what’s happening.” He picks up the bowl and spoons up some oatmeal. He brings it to my mouth. “Open.”

I do.

“Swallow,” he says when he pulls the spoon out.

Again, I do.

We don’t speak until I’ve eaten the whole bowl and drank the juice out of the little straw he holds to my mouth.

“Why am I tied to the bed?”

“Where did you get the pills?”

“I…I didn’t mean…I changed my mind.”