Jeffrey walked into the room just as the nurses rolled Joanne back in. They had taken her for a post-surgery MRI. The doctors had assured him the swelling in her brain had gone down, that everything looked good now.
She caught sight of Jeffrey, and even in her hospital gown, hair wrapped in gauze and eyes dulled from meds, her face lit up like dawn breaking. That smile had a way of stripping everything away—the anxiety, the guilt, the self-doubt. She was the light in every corner of his chaos.
He smiled back, took the chair beside her, and sat.
"So," she said, her voice hoarse but steady, "what happened with Tom Sullivan?"
Her expression hardened. Just saying that name left a bitter taste. The memories clawed at her: the terror of being attacked in what was supposed to be a safe space, in a women's restroom. A place where no one should have to be on guard. That coward had waited, lurking, knowing she'd be alone in there and followed.
It was unforgivable.
