“Mrs. Thornton,” she said, her voice tight.

“I didn’t expect anyone to be in here at this hour.”

“I wanted to spend some time with my husband,” I said, keeping my hands hidden behind my back.

My palms were sweating, slick against the fabric of my skirt.

Nurse Benson stepped into the room, the rubber soles of her shoes squeaking on the hardwood floor.

She closed the door behind her with a soft click.

The smell of lavender soap and antiseptic followed her.

“The matriarch was very clear about the visiting hours,” she said, setting the tray on the bedside table.

“Ethan needs his rest.”

“He seems to be resting very deeply,” I replied.

I watched her gloved hands as she reached for the syringe.

“He is in a stable coma,” she said, her tone flat.

“It is my job to keep him comfortable.”

She did not look at me as she spoke.

She kept her eyes fixed on the IV line connected to Ethan’s pale arm.

I glanced at the medical cabinet behind her.

The drawer was not closed all the way; a tiny sliver of the black binder was visible.