For seven days, Emily floated between morphine and a pain that made every ceiling tile feel personal.
Nurses changed her bandages.
Her mother answered reporters in the hallway.
Nathan’s parents stood outside her door with their hands folded in front of them like they were waiting for church to start and did not know the service had already ended.
Nathan’s mother, Diane Mercer, came in only once during those first days.
She stood at the foot of the bed in a dark dress, her hair pinned back neatly, her face pale and controlled.
“I’m sorry,” Diane said.
Emily was too drugged to know what to do with those words.
Diane looked at Emily’s bandaged hands.
Then at the ring.
Then she looked away.
Nathan’s father, Paul, stayed longer.
He cried quietly beside the window and told Emily that Nathan had loved her more than anything.
