Of course she's there. She wouldn't be anywhere else Last time—well, it wasn't really last time, but they had all thought it was— he'd called them all together, but she wouldn't wait for a summons now.
River stands by the TARDIS door, breathing in and out. He'll be fine, of course he will; she's met his next self several times, but time can always be rewritten.
Something falls against the door.
She opens the door, barely catching him before he fell across the threshold. His waistcoat is singed at the seams, his trousers are scraped thin, his skin is bright with bruises. "Oh, sweetie." She mustn't cry.
"River?" His gaze wanders—can he even see her? "Come to mock me, like the others? I can see them—your parents—you—Clara. All the ones I've screwed up. i tried, you know. I tried to change it."
She cups his face in her hands, kisses his forehead. "Never. Don't you dare."
"Run, and run, and run. Behind and in front and sideways, like a Matchbox track. Loop-de-loop." He tries to smile. "Time for a new model."
She had thought she was ready. But as much as she teased him—"babyface," "twelve-year-old"—this is the man she's murdered. The man she's married, the man she's met. Her mother's imaginary friend, her childhood obsession.
Golden light brushed his skin, dissolving the bruises. He sighs, sounding very, very old. "That's better." His voice drops into a whisper. "River, promise you won't tell."
"I promise." She takes his hand.
"It hurts. I told her it didn't—I told her to wait, I'd be along in a minute. I didn't want her to know—it hurts."
New York, all those years ago—her childish thoughts, echoed by her dying husband: it hurts. Never mind the new body, never mind the fancy show—dying hurts.
She kisses him again. I love you, she almost says, but she's here, she knows what's about to happen, she remembers how much it hurts, and she's staying for him: does it really need to be said?
And then there's light—and screams—and her husband dies—and her husband is born.