The Emergency Room

I sit in the driver’s seat of my hatchback, engine off, watching the porch light of the apartment next door flicker on. The silence is absolute, broken only by the rhythmic *thump-thump* of Barnaby’s tail against the floor mat. I am waiting for the signal that he is awake, that the night is over, but mostly I am holding onto the ghost of his hand on my shoulder, heavy and warm, anchoring me to a version of myself I forgot I could access. I type a text to Graham—*Did you sleep?*—and then delete it. It is too early for courtesy. It is too late for anything else.

The morning is still gray when I remember how we got here.

It starts at six on Sunday evening, under the streetlamp that buzzes like a trapped insect. I stand by the wrought-iron gate, Barnaby straining against his lead, his terrier muscles coiled for a war that doesn’t exist. Graham is already there, leaning against the brickwork, looking less like a man who owns a structural engineering firm and more like someone who has just run out of patience. He wears a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing forearms that are permanently smudged with graphite and drywall dust. He doesn’t smile. He never does on handover days. He just checks his watch, a habit that used to annoy me because it implied I was late, even when I was early.