“What happened?” she asked, her hands already reaching for the blood pressure cuff.

“She collapsed,” Ethan said. “Get another bag of saline and check her glucose.”

His voice was calm, the voice of a lead surgeon in control of a crisis, but his eyes were wide and dark.

I watched the fluorescent lights above me, my breathing shallow and fast.

The nurse wrapped the black cuff around my arm.

The fabric squeezed tightly, a dull throbbing pressure that anchored me to the present.

“Pressure is ninety over sixty,” the nurse reported. “It is low, but she is stabilizing.”

“Let’s get the fluids running faster,” Ethan said, his hand lingering on the IV line.

He adjusted the plastic roller clamp with his thumb.

“I will get the saline,” the nurse said, stepping backward out of the room.

The door swung shut behind her, cutting off the noise of the hallway.

The silence of the room returned, thick and heavy.

Ethan sat down in the vinyl chair beside my bed.

He placed his elbows on his knees and stared at the floor for a long moment.