22

“I want to see Jerome!” Sandra clutched the nurse’s sleeve tightly, her voice hoarse. “Go tell himr I have something to say to him—just one thing!” The nurse pulled her hand away, her tone calm: “Mr. Powell instructed that you need to rest and not see anyone.” “Anyone?” Sandra laughed, tears falling onto the blanket. “Even me, who nearly died in front of him, counts as ‘anyone’?” She pulled out the IV needle from her hand, pounding the bedframe with her uninjured hand, shouting Jerome’s name until her voice grew hoarse and she could no longer speak. The caregiver came in, held her down, and reinserted the needle. The cold liquid flowed through her veins, gradually sapping her strength to struggle. Sandra stared at the ceiling, reaching under the bed for the fruit knife hidden there. The blade was thin, and as it glided across her skin, there was a faint sting. Sandra watched the blood seep out, a strange smile curving her lips. She dialed the number she knew by heart. The phone rang