Page 32 of Terms of Exposure
The doors opened with a whoosh. I walked forward, feet carrying me on autopilot. Candace followed slowly, peering through the glass at the patients inside as we passed.
Her breathing shallowed behind me, her body beginning to absorb what these halls carried.
We passed the baby on oxygen—the tiny one with the fresh bandage across his head. Three generations kept vigil around him every day: his grandmother in the corner chair, his mother hovering close.
In the hallway, his cousin sat cross-legged on the floor—couldn't be older than five, long brown hair and a wide smile—pilfering snacks from the donation cart. During the early morning hours I'd watch her climb onto the edge of his bed, pressing sticky-fingered kisses to his forehead before darting off again. A bright spot in a place that didn't get many.
And so many others. Their grief, their hope, their waiting—woven into every inch of these halls.
Eventually, Sebastian's room came into view. The familiar tangle of hair peeking out from the blankets.
I looked over my shoulder at Candace, whose face had gone pale.
"This is Sebastian," I said, my gaze wandering back to the man in the bed.
She chuckled lightly, eyes wide and sad. "I kind of figured that out."
I sank into the chair beside his bed—my usual spot now—my body giving in to the weight of the place. The ventilator hissed its steady rhythm. The room was always too cold.
"We appreciate you doing this," I said to Candace. "More than you know." With Rosie still recovering and Damien and me both back at work, the gaps had started to show. We'd been trading off shifts, running ourselves ragged trying to make sure Sebastian was never alone.
Because the idea of him waking up—or worse, slipping away—with no one beside him was the one thing none of us could stomach. Candace had offered without hesitation. Rearranged her whole schedule, pushed back brand deals, showed up with a tote bag full of books and snacks like she was settling in for the long haul.
"You should have seen Rosie's face when I told her." I propped my feet up on the wheel of the bed. "You would have thought I'd just announced I had Mother Teresa's number."
"Yeah." She laughed shakily, eyes drawn to Sebastian and the machines keeping him alive.
"You get used to it," I whispered. "Well… as used to it as you can."
"We're lucky," I continued. "Some families have been here for months."
Her expression fell.
"The little boy we passed on the way in—he was born with some kind of spinal cord deformity. I don't know the particulars, but I know it has something to do with his back and brain."
Candace let out a long exhale. "Can we not talk about that, please?"
Guilt hit me. "Sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out. I was just trying to put things in perspective." Even as the words left my mouth, they felt wrong. Comparing someone's trauma to another's always felt cheap.
"It's okay," she said quietly, though her voice wavered. "I guess I have to get used to it."
I dragged my eyes from the bed to her tear-lined ones.
"You don't have to do this. Damien and I can figure something out. Rotate schedules or something..." I trailed off, knowing that wasn't a possibility. One Candace would know too.
"Seriously, Emma," she said flatly.
I smiled. "I know."
Candace moved closer to the bed, hesitant, like she was approaching something sacred. Her fingers brushed the railing before she pulled them back.
"Hey," she whispered—so soft I almost missed it. "I'm Candace. Emma's friend." A pause. "I'm going to be here for a while, so… try not to snore too loud, okay?"
Her voice gave out on the last word.
I looked away, blinking hard, and let her have the moment.
Some introductions didn't need witnesses.
