Doctors came and went.
Machines beeped behind closed doors.
I stared at the blood on my hands long after it had dried.
At three in the morning, a neurosurgeon approached.
My entire body locked.
“Mrs. Herrera?”
I stood so quickly the chair tipped over.
“How is she?”
The doctor removed his glasses.
“She survived surgery.”
The world stopped.
Then restarted.
I collapsed against Diego.
The sound that escaped me was half sob, half prayer.
“But…” the doctor continued.
The word froze us.
“There was significant swelling. The next forty-eight hours are critical.”
Critical.
Not safe.
