Page 162 of Break Me

There’s no surprise in her expression.

“Hey,” I say, because it’s the only thing that comes out right.

“Hey.” She offers me a tired smile.

Laura steps forward, her voice softening just slightly as she introduces herself again, this time to Raven, explaining things in that same steady tone that’s meant to make this feel manageable, like it’s a normal process.

I sit beside Raven.

Listening. Or at least trying to. My attention catching on certain words and losing the rest.

Care plan.

Pain management.

Visits.

What to expect.

I focus on that.

What to expect.

“What does that look like, exactly?” I ask, cutting in without meaning to, my voice sharper than I intend. “When you say changes, what kind of changes do you mean?”

Laura doesn’t flinch. She answers me the same way she’s answered everything else. Calm. Clear. Like none of this is new to her.

“There may be more difficulty with appetite,” she says. “Fatigue will increase. She’ll spend more time resting. We’ll adjust medications as needed to keep her comfortable.”

Comfortable.

I nod, even though the word doesn’t sit right.

I ask another question.

Then another.

I hear myself doing it, but I can’t stop myself. I’m circling the same points from different angles. Making her explain things I already understand so that I can hold onto something that feels like direction.

Because if there’s direction, if there’s a process, then there’s something I can do.

Raven doesn’t interrupt.

She just watches.

I can feel it even when I don’t look at her, the way she’s taking me in the same way she always does, as though she can see straight through whatever I’m trying to hold together.

At some point, the man with the bag moves past us, asking quietly about the bedroom. About where certain things might go. I follow him without thinking, stepping into the hallway, into the room we sleep in, and watching as he looks around like he’s already mapping it out.

“This area here should work,” he says, gesturing toward the space near the window.

I don’t respond. Instead, I stand there, picturing it without meaning to. The change from what the room is now to what it’s going to be. Something in my chest tightens enough that I have to turn away before it becomes something I can’t push back down.

When I step back into the living room, Laura’s finishing up, going over final details with Raven. Her tone is unchanged, steady from beginning to end.

“We’ll check in again tomorrow,” she says. “If anything changes before then, you call.”

“I will.”