Then I bought the earliest ticket home.
Stacy's mood had finally stabilized. The nightmares that had plagued her every night began to ease.
Miles sat on the sofa beside her bed, his fingertips absently tracing the edge of his phone. His gaze was distant, unfocused.
Something nagged at him—a feeling that he had forgotten something important.
Even when Stacy spoke to him, his responses came slow and hollow.
She noticed. She pouted and complained that his mind was somewhere else. He managed a thin smile and brushed it off with a few empty words.
It wasn't until evening, after Stacy had fallen asleep, that it finally hit him.
He had left me at the hospital.
The color drained from Miles's face. Panic and guilt crashed over him in a wave.
Without another thought, he rushed out the door—didn't even stop to change his shoes.
He tore through the hospital, burst into my room—
And found it empty.
His chest seized. He grabbed a passing nurse, his voice frantic.
"Excuse me—the patient who was staying here, Marilyn Swanson. Where did she go?"
The nurse glanced at him, thinking for a moment.
"Oh, Marilyn? She was discharged days ago. Three or four, maybe."