"I'm here for Jim Pomatter? He was brought in by ambulance, I don't know how long ago." Jenna peered over the counter at the ancient receptionist, who stared at her through massive horn-rimmed glasses.

"Of course, dearie. I take it you're the wife?"

"Uhh no, but they said I've been named as his medical proxy—"

"Aww yes, a concerned fiancé, I see."

Jenna didn't correct her, worried that doing so would cut off her access to Jim. She couldn't do that. The receptionist clacked away at her keyboard painfully slowly, peering at the screen in front of her through squinted eyes.

"Ok sweetie, he's in surgery now. You can head on up to the third floor and wait there for more information, I'll page them to let them know you're here. A doctor should come out and update you shortly. Good luck, and try not to worry, dearie. We have very good doctors here, they know exactly what they're doing."

Jenna didn't hear the last of what the old lady said as she hustled off to the stairwell. Perhaps the elevator would be easier, but she needed to get there, fast. Even if it was just to wait. The concrete blurred in front of her as she climbed, her footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

The third floor was dominated by two huge swinging doors, both marked with big red DO NOT ENTER signs. Waiting areas were arranged by formations of chairs on the industrial carpet in the room.

There were only two other families in the waiting room; some parents clearly waiting on their child, re-assuring a little boy that his sister would be ok, and an old man, perhaps waiting on his wife. Jenna found a chair in a different cluster and sat, impatiently tapping her toe, staring at the little plastic windows on the double doors, praying that they would swing open. She couldn't bring herself to pick a magazine up, too wired to focus on anything but the big double doors.

After a few minutes, the elevator bell rang. Jenna turned and stared as two police officers emerged from the elevator doors, scanning the room until their eyes settled on her. Of course.

"Mrs. Hunterson?" They strolled over casually, the taller of the pair addressing Jenna.

"Yes?" She didn't bother to correct them.

"You're here for Mr. Pomatter?"

"It's pronounced pom-uh-door, not poe-matter. But yes. I am. Are you going to tell me what happened now?"

"We were actually hoping you could do us that favor; can you step outside so we can take your statement?"

"My statement? On what? I'm trying to find out what the hell happened. Why is he in the hospital? Was there an accident?"

"Not quite, ma'am. Did nobody inform you of what occurred?"

"Obviously not!"

"Well if you step outside with us, we'll gladly get you up to speed."

"They said they'd be out to give an update soon though," Jenna glanced at the big double doors again.

"How about we just head to the far end of the floor, where we'll still be in sight but have a little more privacy?

"Ok." Jenna followed them tensely away from the other families.

"So, Mrs. Hunterson—"

"That's not my name."

"Oh, ok. Uhh, then, what should I call you?"

"Jenna is just fine." She stuck her chin out, daring them to challenge her.

"Ok, Jenna. We were called to a ten ten, and when we arrived—"

"I'm sorry, what's a ten ten?"

"She's a civilian, Bruce," the other officer—who had thus far remained silent—piped in.

"Oh, yeah, uh, sorry. We were called to a fight, I meant to say."

"Jim wouldn't have gotten in a fight—there must be some mistake."

"Yes, uh, the call was for a supposed fight between Mr. Pomatter and a John Doe—or, I mean to say, an unidentified male suspect—and upon arrival it was clear that this was not so much a fight as an assault, as Mr. Pomatter was at a clear—uhh—disadvantage, I guess."

"Earl."

"I'm sorry ma'am, what was that?"

Jenna hadn't even realized she had said the name out loud.

"It'll be Earl Hunterson. Not a John Doe."

"Is that Hunterson as in your husband?" The other officer was quick to catch on.

"My soon-to-be ex husband." Jenna stuck her thumb in her mouth, chewing on a hang-nail.

"Oh, ok ma'am. Now, is this the first time that Mr. Hunterson has sought out Mr. Pomatter—"

"Jim," Jenna corrected him, pulling her thumb from her mouth momentarily.

"Yes, well, is this the first time Mr. Hunterson has followed Jim?"

"Wait—he followed him? Where did this happen?"

"It happened at the bar on Higgins Road."

"Oh then, he didn't follow him."

"And why do you say that?"

"Earl is there all the time. He gets drunk and then comes over and bangs on my door. Scares the living hell out of me. Jim must have gone to the bar and it was just his luck he got in the way." Jenna noticed the double doors swinging open down at the other end of the ward as she spoke. A women in green surgical scrubs stepped out and looked around, seemingly puzzled until she noticed Jenna and the officers at the other end of the floor.

"Pardon me," Jenna said, "but I gotta go get an update. I'm sure y'alls questions can wait." She wedged herself between them and sped down the floor to where the nurse waited.

"You're Mrs. Hunterson?" The nurse eyed her up and down, seemingly disbelieving. Jenna couldn't blame her—she had been wearing the same spit-up stained t-shirt for a few days now, and she couldn't really remember the last time she'd washed her hair. She must look a sight.

"Just Jenna. But yes, I am. Is he ok?"

"How much did the officers tell you?"

"He was attacked, right? By some fat drunken asshole—pardon my French."

"Yes, that's essentially the case. Thankfully the, err, asshole was quite drunk, so he wasn't packing much force. Your friend would be dead if that weren't the case."

Jenna felt the blood rush out of her head, her vision going spotty. The nurse noticed and reached an arm out, grabbing Jenna's fore-arm and steadying her before she could fall.

"I'm so sorry hun, that's not what I meant. Well it is, but what I should say is that Mr. Pomatter is going to be fine. He's going to be just fine. He's heading to recovery now and as soon as he's awake you can see him."

"Ok, ok, good." Jenna took a deep breath, trying to steady herself. It felt as though her exhaustion had suspended itself while she was uncertain about Jim and whether he would be ok. Now that she knew however, it returned like a brick wall, striking fatigue into every bone in her body. She struggled to remain upright, practically leaning on the nurse. Vaguely, a thought emerged from the fog that had just rolled into her brain. "What happened? Why did he need surgery?"

"His spleen ruptured from one of the blows—they had to perform a partial splenectomy to remove the damaged portion. Thankfully they didn't have to take the whole thing out—that can lead to other complications—and they were able to do it laparoscopically, so his recovery will be nice and quick."

"So that's just it? Part of his spleen?" Jenna asked. Obviously it was terrifying, but in the grand scheme of things—he could live without some spleen.

"Well, not quite," the nurse hedged.

"What else?"

"That was the only thing requiring surgery, thank goodness, but he did suffer quite a few other injuries."

"Like what?" Jenna asked impatiently, ignoring the shaking that was starting in her legs.

"Do you just want the list?"

Jenna nodded.

"Ok well, he's going to have a major concussion when he wakes up—he was unconscious on the scene so we have yet to assess the damage, but the paramedics said his pupillary response was delayed, so we can be almost certain on that front. He has quite a few lacerations including a nasty one they stitched up in the OR, and he has quite the black eye as well. He likely has some massive contusions on his abdomen—that's where the spleen bleed was, and with all that blood under his skin it just looks like one massive bruise, so we can't be certain there. We'll know more in a few days. One of his ribs is definitely broken, right above the spleen, which made it a tricky piece of surgery they did in there for him—be sure to thank the doctors. There might be another couple rib breaks, we didn't have time to x-ray before the surgery, so that will be something to check for once he's stabilized. Past that, he has a lot of defensive bruises, and a pretty nasty ankle sprain where it looks like he went down under whoever it was that assaulted him—we'll x-ray that as well to make sure it's not a break. We'd usually put the sprain alone on crutches, but with all his other injuries present that would be irresponsible—it'll be on you to help him get around."

"Oh, I'm not—"

"You're not what?" The nurse looked at Jenna expectantly. Jenna paused for a moment, catching her breath. All of that had happened to Jim. Because of her. But who would help him? Francine didn't speak to him, and he had never mentioned any other friends before. She didn't even know about his mom and dad—he'd only ever mentioned Francine's family, in Connecticut. And Earl had done it. Earl didn't know though, did he? About their affair? He had to, if he had assaulted Jim. How did he find out? It was too much.

"Hun? Are you ok?" The nurse reached out again, grasping Jenna's arm. Jenna realized she'd completely tuned out and shook her head, trying to regain focus.

The police officers stood just feet away, waiting to pounce once the nurse relinquished her, and Jim was somewhere in there, concussed and injured and needing help, and her baby was at home, soon to need a feeding and a change and Jenna hadn't pumped that morning, so her breasts were achy and full and dear god, it was all just too much. The nurses hand tightened on Jenna's arm, pulling her back from the tides of anxiety beginning to overtake her.

"Ok hun, how about we just sit down," Jenna was vaguely aware of being led to one of the chairs in the waiting area, the other people watching her apprehensively. Just then, a male nurse in scrubs poked his head through the doorway.

"He's awake," he said, swinging the door wide.

"You ready to go see him?" The nurse holding Jenna's arm asked, concerned eyes peering into Jenna's own. Jenna just nodded, standing shakily and walking toward the male nurse. The nurse holding her arm walked with Jenna, half-supporting her. The blood started sounding like rushing waves in Jenna's ears, overwhelming her. It was when they turned a corner and Jenna saw the curtains lining the wall, some closed, some open revealing empty beds, that she froze.

"I can't," she whispered.

"He's going to be ok, sweetie," the nurse promised. "He'll look mighty ugly, but he'll get better. You get to help him get better."

Something inside Jenna twisted, and she felt herself choke up. She shook her head frantically.

"He doesn't want me, I'm sorry, I don't know why I'm down on the papers, it's not, uhh, it's not what it seems. I can't—"

"Jenna?"

His voice was thready and weak, emerging from the curtains somewhere. The nurse grabbed Jenna's arm and, before she could protest, ushered her through the curtains of the second-nearest bay.

He was dark. That was the only way to describe it. From his black hair to the dark red cut spanned by three black stitches to the purply shadow around his left eye, the reddish-purple bruises on his forearms, it was all just dark. Jenna let her eyes travel down to his mid-section and balked at the red seeping into the bandage on the left side of his ribcage. The nurse followed her eyes and noticed it, dropping Jenna's arm and rushing to remove the white gauze. Once more, the blood in Jenna's ears pounded loudly as she saw what was underneath—the skin was nearly black, bloated and dusky. Stitches spanned three incisions and held the skin together tightly. The incisions were ugly things, two of them under an inch long, the last one just under two inches. The nurse swabbed the blood away from the largest with some gauze pads, then gently laid a larger square over the area and taped it down around the edges.

"Some bleeding is normal, he'll be fine." She was back at Jenna's side in a moment, squeezing her arm once more.

"You came," he whispered from the bed. Had he just been letting her size him up that whole time? Jenna couldn't even tell if his eyes were open through the swelling. "Why?" he faltered, coughing once and wincing.

"Now don't you start coughing on me yet, boy," the nurse scolded him, and Jim looked properly chagrined. Jenna didn't realize she had walked over to the bed until she was running her fingers through his hair, feeling how dirty it was.

"I was put down as your emergency contact," she whispered. "By Francine."

He closed his eyes and grimaced.

"Sorry."

"Shh, it's not your fault." Jenna gently laid a finger over his lips, hating herself as soon as she had done it. She realized as her finger brushed over it that he had a scab on his lip—it looked like he had bit himself in the scuffle somehow.

"You can go."

"You're kidding, right? Who'll take care of you?"

"Francine's required to. Technically she's still my wife." He smiled wanly, and Jenna felt the corners of her mouth tug upwards with his. How could he be cracking a joke right now?

"I think she'd sooner finish the job than help you re-coup," Jenna sniffled. When had she started crying? Jim heard the thickening of her voice and opened his eyes again, peering at her.

"Jenna, you said you wanted no part of this. Go. It's ok. I'll be fine." He coughed as he said the word 'fine', and something seized him. He kept coughing, and Jenna listened to the awful grating sound coming from his ribcage, the white bandage over the surgery site wetting with more blood, his face reddening with pain and effort as the cough wracked his body. The nurse rushed to his side and pushed his shoulders into the bed.

"Stop coughing! Choke if you have to! Hold it in!" She coached him through the fit as Jenna sat there, paralyzed, watching it all happen in front of her. He looked like he was dying, and as the cough faded, it left him wheezing.

"S-sorry," he tried to say.

"Shhh, stop talking. You only make it worse. Try to sleep."

"You should—just go." He closed his eyes and tried to turn away as much as he could, wincing at the movement.

"Nope. This mess is mine. Fat chance I'm leaving now."

"What does that mean?" he rasped.

"Sleep, Jim." Jenna sat in the molded plastic chair by his bed, not daring to touch him as he faded out of consciousness. Once she was sure he was out, she reached out and took his hand in her own. As she did so, she was surprised to see his knuckles weren't scraped or bruised at all—of course, he hadn't thrown a single punch in the entire thing. He hadn't when she had attacked him earlier either. He always just took what the world threw at him, never retaliating, never hitting back.