Chapter 6

Sophie's POV

The day I left the hospital, it was still raining in New York.

I didn't wait for the nurse to change my dressing, and I didn't wait for the lawyer's car. The moment the light came through the window, I undid my hospital gown button by button, exposing the bruising across my chest that hadn't faded yet.

There was only one thing in the locker: an old rescue jacket, washed clean.

The one I'd been wearing in the photo, five years ago.

The cuffs were worn pale, the shoulders had gone stiff from being waterlogged, and the threads at the edge of the team patch were fraying. I shook it out and put it on slowly. Halfway through zipping it up, the incision across my abdomen pulled, and I had to stop and breathe through the pain before I could pull the zipper all the way to the top.

The photo was under the pillow.

I slid it out and looked at it once.

In the picture, Ethan stood beside me, hand resting on my shoulder. He had just finished clasping the GPS bracelet on my wrist. His face was smudged with mud, but his eyes were bright.

I folded the photo in half.

The crease pressed flat across Ethan's face.

I slipped it into the inner pocket of my jacket, next to the post-surgery bandaging, where it made a small firm shape against my side.

On the bed, I laid out the hospital gown and folded it, sleeves over sleeves, collar aligned, until it was neat and square.

I put the sealed bag on top of it.

The cloth inside had dried. The edges were still crinkled. That small stain in the corner was still there, pale yellow, caught behind the plastic, the last thing he had left behind.

I pressed my thumb against the seal for a moment.

It gave a soft sound.

I looked down at the bare mark on my wrist where the bracelet used to be.

The cracked GPS unit was in the drawer.

The nurse had said the rescue team had logged it and I could take it with me. I picked it up. The screen was dark. The frame had mud in the seams. The clasp had a deep groove where I'd bitten into it.

I'd assumed it was broken.

Broken was fine.

If it still lit up, the promise it carried would only look worse by contrast.

I set it on top of the sealed bag.

One old promise pressing down on the only thing left of my son. That felt about right.

Footsteps passed the door, a nurse, light and quick. I didn't look up. I took my discharge papers and walked to the nurses' station.

The nurse saw me dressed and stopped.

"Ms. Gray, you can't be walking around yet."

I set the papers on the counter.

"I need to check out."

"Your infection markers still need to be rechecked."

"I'll follow up somewhere else."

She looked at my face, pale and hollowed out, and started to say something else. I was already picking up the pen.

On the last page of the hospital records, there was a privacy disclosure section.

Authorize disclosure of medical information to family members.

I checked a box.

No.

Authorize disclosure of patient whereabouts to family members.

I checked another box.

No.

Authorize legal spouse to receive future medical correspondence.

I didn't pause. Third check.

No.

The pen tore slightly into the paper.

The nurse took the form back, her voice quieter now.

"Do you need us to call you a car?"

"No."

I signed the last page, put the pen down, and walked out through the main entrance with nothing in my hands, just the folded photo pressing into my chest through the inner pocket.

Wind pushed through the doors. The rescue jacket was thin, and it didn't stop the cold.

The train station was nearly empty.

Trains had only just resumed running after the flood. The waiting area was scattered with wet umbrellas and muddy footprints. I stood at the edge of the platform, and my phone buzzed.

A message from Hannah.

Found a place. South-facing, close to a hospital. Text me when you land and I'll come get you.

I read it, then turned my phone off.

The arrival tone sounded down the track.

The rails began to hum.

I looked down at the top button of my rescue jacket. In the photo from five years ago, this same button was there, bright and sharp. Ethan had done it up for me once. Told me to wear the jacket properly and stop leaving the collar open.

I reached up and pulled.

The thread snapped. The button dropped into my palm.

I stepped to the yellow line at the platform edge and opened my fingers.

The button fell, hit the gravel between the rails, rolled twice, and disappeared into a crack in the dark.

The train came in on a wall of wind.

The doors opened.

I stepped on, found a seat by the window, and sat down.

The platform lights slid past my face one by one.

I didn't look back.

Back in the hospital room, the cracked bracelet still rested on the sealed bag.

Deep inside its shattered screen, the local memory held a complete record of every GPS ping from the night of the flood until the morning I walked out.

In the receiver field, that one line remained.

Blocked.