He jolted awake with a choking gasp, covered in a cold sweat.
Would it be today? Please, God, don't let it be today. Eyes pressed closed, he waited for the worst. Please, not today.
Waiting for someone to die is a sick sort of torture. In many ways it was so much worse than the sudden shocking loss of an unexpected death. Every moment was loaded, charged, the fear and the denial and the stress eating at his insides until he was almost numb. Only in the mornings would the panic grip him again. He knew he would know the second she turned, the moment her own heart stopped beating. Not today. Please, honey, not today. Not today. She was his, and he was hers. He would know.
A beat. Then two.
Jake.
Bella. He let out a heavy breath of relief. Still alive. She was still alive. He grabbed his notebook from where he'd wedged it in the rickety bunk, and flipped open to the back. He added a mark. 267 days. He'd kept track of each one in the back of the black pocket journal he'd bought at a dollar store just north of the Canadian border. For 267 days, he'd waited, each day haunted with the cruel agony of anticipation. She had one more day. Just one more. It was hard to hold onto hope but he couldn't stop himself.
He sucked in a deep breath, held it, and breathed slowly out until his racing heart slowed to its usual 48 beats per minute. Then he slung his feet to the floor, and stood, stretching. She had another day.