My physical pain had faded to a dull, throbbing ache in my lower abdomen.

The emotional numbness, however, was complete.

At four o’clock, the heavy wood-grained door of my room swung open.

Victor walked in.

He carried a bouquet of damp yellow roses he must have bought at the lobby gift shop.

He looked tired, his expensive wool coat slightly wrinkled, his hair damp from the rain.

He stopped at the foot of my bed, his face twisting into a mask of deep concern.

“Claire,” he said.

He reached out to touch my leg through the white cotton blanket.

I pulled my leg back, away from his hand.

His hand hovered in the air for a second before he dropped it to his side.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

He set the roses down on the bedside table, right next to my plastic water pitcher.

“The weather in Miami was terrible,” he said. “The entire eastern seaboard was grounded.”

He took off his coat and draped it over the back of the vinyl chair.

“I tried to get a flight out of Fort Lauderdale, then Orlando,” he said. “Everything was booked solid.”