flying frightens her. hospitals frighten her. doctors, men with clipboards and unsmiling faces, nurses with needles and receptionists asking questions — it all sets her on edge.
but that fear doesn't compete with what she feels as she sees laura for the first time since telling her goodnight.
they let her stay, because they have very little choice. let her watch the weak flutter of laura's heart on the monitor. for hours, she watches, listens to the steady, electronic beating of her heart. visiting hours end, and she doesn't leave. they start up again, and she still doesn't leave.
she has been sitting here in a comfortable chair a nurse who pitied her brought around for her, tending to laura as best she can, for the better part of two days, snapping at almost every nurse who just wants to help — you need to sleep, let us give you something to help you — they attempt this routine one after the other, minutes, then hours apart, to no avail.
another night passes, and it's just as bad as the first. she wonders, as the doctors do, when laura will wake up. unlike them, she doesn't wonder if she'll wake up. she smooths back her hair and kisses her forehead so, so gently.
she does sleep, here and there, drifting off for what feels like a second and startling awake when she realises what she's done. her eyes are so heavy, her body feels weak, her — laura stirs. sarah bolts upright.
