She turned her face away because tears had finally arrived in full and she would not let them fall where he could see. His hand came to rest lightly over hers on the blanket. He did not squeeze. He did not insist. He just left it there.
For the first time in months, Maya slept without waking in panic.
When the sun came up, New York looked bleached and newly washed through the narrow hospital window. Pale light climbed the opposite building. A delivery truck backed into an alley somewhere below. Nurses changed shifts. Coffee smell drifted in from the hall.
Taylor was still there.
He had not gone home. Sometime in the night someone had brought him a blanket, which now hung folded over the back of the chair, unused. He was standing at the window with a paper cup in one hand, phone in the other, speaking quietly to someone in the clipped, efficient tone Maya recognized from his work calls.
