JENNIE

Present . . .

I've lost track of time.

How long have I been in this room? It's supposed to be a sanctuary but feels like a sinking ship in the middle of an ocean. Oxygen's precious and each shallow breath in will eventually be my last.

Has it been minutes? Centuries?

I don't know.

I'm not sure I care.

Several people have come in and out of the chapel. I watch them, silently. They sit or kneel. Some light a candle. Some don't. They whisper in prayer. Weep softly. Beg and barter for their loved ones. They don't think I hear them, or maybe they don't care. Maybe they think if we all band together in a show of unity, it will save at least one of our loved ones currently fighting for their lives.

But unless it's mine—unless it's her—I don't care.

Callous. Selfish and heartless. Say what you want about that thought. It doesn't make me a bad person. All it makes me is human.

I may not know how long I've been sitting here by the traditional marching of seconds and minutes, but it's been long enough to know the people who pass through this refuge fall into two camps.

Life or death.

Loss or hope.

Defiance or defeat.

I know which camp I'm in.

I am defiance. Defiance is me. If she dies, I'll know it. I'll feel our bond break in the very depths of my being. And right now, while my soul feels crushed, it doesn't feel dead. I know I will feel dry and barren if she leaves me here alone.

So while she fights, so do I. I fight for strength where I'm weak. I fight for hope to replace despair. I fight for us, because if she makes it through this, she will need me by her side more than ever before.

The soft whoosh of the door opening alerts me I'm no longer alone. I hope no one has found me. I can't stomach any of their faces right now. Not a one.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a frail old woman shuffle past to the small altar in the front. She reaches out a shaky hand and shortly afterward, I hear the distinct friction of a match being lit. I think that tiny piece of wood will disintegrate before she gets the wick of the candle going, but she manages just fine. Once the votive burns, she pivots slowly and is taking a seat in the first pew when she spots me.

She straightens.

I square my shoulders.

We stare soundlessly.

I can read her pain.

I think maybe she can read mine, too.

A glint of a name badge pinned to her blouse catches the light. Volunteer probably. She's far too old to work here.

Suddenly my eyes burn and itch and blur. I try to stop them. It's hopeless. For some baffling reason, she's managed to trigger an avalanche of gut-wrenching loneliness I'm helpless to keep inside anymore.

Then she heads my way.

She's a stranger yet not. I feel drawn to her for some odd, unexplainable reason. She must feel the same because she sits and slides over until our thighs practically touch.

Still, she looks at me and I at her.

Without a word, she places her hand on top of mine. It's cool and clammy. I would feel her age by her hands alone, even if my sight didn't work.

Water zigzags down my cheeks. It drips down my throat, soaking into the neck of my shirt. I can hardly see her now through its endless stream, each big drop pushing the others out of the way to make room for the ones behind them.

She squeezes her fingers against mine. Her simple human touch sends this peace and calm throughout my soul. Then she rasps in a voice more solid than her age would lend, "I know it seems like it, dear, but you're not alone. You can let go. I've got you."

Then I lose it. Completely fucking lose it. She's said that to me so many times over the years that I feel as if it's her sitting here, talking to me, reassuring me through this apparition. Telling me to be strong, not to give up hope. That the time we've had together has been far too short and she's coming back for me.

Some people call it hooey, but I believe in divine intervention. I felt it when I stumbled across Old Man Riley, fated as we were to meet. I felt it when I was moments away from dying in that frigid lake at age eleven. I felt it when she watched over me all these years.

And with my head now resting on an old woman's shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably, I feel it now.

I feel her now.

I sink into that security she's always given me, refusing to believe there is any outcome other than a long life together. The one we've always imagined.