Probably not gonna be answered but I need the next part of fbau and Kate after rehab or even better her seeing Yelena with Ava bc I need drama before u leave😔
You didn't get it before I left but...your wish is my command? (A month late :])
So…it seems like I have no choice but to split the 21k word chapter into three separate posts because the full thing goes past Tumblr's character limit. I have no idea if this will work, but I'm posting this first part and see if my idea will be successful.
I'll try reblogging this and doing parts two and three on this same post so it's all in one place. I don't know if that will somehow eventually hit character limit too but…worth a shot.
Anyway…Trust the process. Go on the journey. Blah blah blah. Stick with it. JUST ENJOY THE RIDE. That's all I'm going to say.
---
Thirty-one days in rehab.
Kate’s therapist calls it a milestone. Says it’s brave. Kate doesn’t feel brave. She feels hungover from clarity. And somehow, everything hurts more now than it did when she was curled in detox, sweating through five layers of clothes. Back then, it was her body breaking. Her blood, her balance, the volume of her breath. Back then, there was an IV.
Now there’s just air.
The mornings come easier. No more drowning in her own sheets. No more tremors. She’s eating again. Sometimes it even stays down.
Still, Kate wakes up angry. Not the kind of anger that used to scare her. Not rage-sharpened sarcasm or weaponized silence. Just a low boil. A quiet scorch, like soup catching on the bottom of a pot.
The mattress squeaks when she shifts. The sheets are stiff, bleach-clean. Patients have to make their own beds every morning. Hospital corners. No creases. They check. It makes her feel like an inmate, but not doing it is worse.
She lies there, eyes open, not moving.
She’s used to this part. The moment between waking and remembering. That short, dumb window where she forgets who she is. And then it crashes in.
OD. Rehab. Yelena. The kids.
Their voices don’t scream anymore. But they echo.
She rolls over and stares at the window. The sky outside is the color of chewed-up Tums. Rain or fog. Either way, it fits.
She gets up.
She knows the rhythm now. Make the bed. Morning vitals. Breakfast. Group. Chores. Individual. Yoga. Journaling. Dinner. More group. Reflection.
She knows when the coffee runs out. Which bathroom has a lock that sticks. Which showers screech past lukewarm. Which corner of the courtyard catches sunlight first.
She’s still new. But not the newest. The freshly admitted look worse than she does now.
There’s a girl from Boston who won’t take off her hoodie. A fifty-something insurance guy who pissed himself mid-share. A trans kid from Maine who hasn’t spoken in five days but stares like every word could kill or save them.
Kate doesn’t look like them anymore. That doesn’t comfort her. It makes her feel like a fraud.
—
Thirty-two days.
There’s a smell in the hallway. Faint. Metallic. Buried under pine-scented disinfectant. The floor is quiet, doors closed, lights dimmed low enough that the exit signs scream red.
Kate walks barefoot to the nurse’s station. Hoodie zipped to her throat. Socks thinning at the heel.
“I can’t sleep. Give me something,” she mutters.
The nurse…older, gray roots, permanent scowl…doesn’t react. Only taps at her computer.
“You have nothing prescribed.”
“Yeah, well, I clearly need something.”
“Try hot tea.”
“I don’t want tea.”
“Music. Pacing. Journaling.” A pause. They study each other. “I’ll check on you in twenty.”
Kate spins on her heel. Marches back to her room.
She doesn’t journal. Doesn’t sob. Just sits at the foot of the bed and presses her palms to her eyes until the sparks come. Until the pressure behind them blooms.
There’s an itch under her skin. Not craving. Worse. The absence of it. That terrifying lucidity that arrives once you no longer want to die…but still have no idea how to live.
This is sobriety now. The part no one warns you about.
—
Thirty-three days.
Oatmeal again. Sometimes they toss in raisins. Not today.
Kate waits until the group clears out. Until the criers are gone. Until the loud ones are halfway down the hall. Then she takes three sluggish bites. Chews like penance. Swallows like something might shatter open.
Some of the newer ones try to sit with her. She’s not “fresh meat” anymore. She’s cleared for twenty extra minutes of outdoor time. That’s a sign of status to them. Progress.
She doesn’t talk. Not to be cruel. Just…she has nothing to give. No wisdom. No “it gets easier” lie.
It doesn’t. You just get better at living inside the pain.
—
Thirty-four days.
They’re in what used to be a chapel. The cross is long gone. Fluorescent lights buzz overhead. A whiteboard tracks “graduations” in color-coded Expo marker.
The newest arrivals sit close. Detox sweat clinging. Hands jittering. Kate doesn’t look at them too long. Can’t.
“Check-in, Kate?” the group therapist asks.
She shrugs. “Fine.”
“Appetite?”
“Better.”
“Are you sleeping?”
Kate nods. Then: “I dreamt I was drowning in a car. My kids were in the backseat. Woke up before they died. Does that count as better?”
Stillness. Then someone chuckles. The therapist scribbles something on her pad.
—
Thirty-five days.
Today’s therapist is Renner. Mid-forties, maybe. Soft-spoken but not soft. Wears plain sweaters and black loafers. No jewelry. No tells. Kate hates that she can’t read her.
“You’re making progress. It’s time to start looking ahead. Not just at what brought you in but what you want, out there…What do you want, Kate?”
Kate thinks. Then mumbles, halfhearted.
“My kids. I hope they trust me again.”
“That’s a hope. Not a want.”
Kate stares out the window. There’s a fingerprint on the glass she’s memorized.
“I want to be better.”
“Better than what?”
“Better than my fucking junkie brother…Better than me.”
“Is he who you’re angry at?”
Kate shrugs. She’s noticed she does that a lot now. She used to be so sure of herself. Now she knows very little.
She fidgets with the frayed cuff of her hoodie. It gives her something to hold on to.
“Recovery doesn’t just dig up the past,” Renner says. “It unearths new things too. Especially when we stop dissociating.”
Kate doesn’t answer.
“You look like you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking I liked you better when you only asked questions I could answer.”
Renner smiles. “That means we’re getting somewhere.”
Kate rolls her eyes.
On the way out, Kate signs up for an extra group: Identity + Rebuilding. Not because she wants to. Just because it’s one more hour she won’t be alone with her thoughts.
When she walks in, there’s a question on the board: “Who are you, without your worst mistake?”
One woman says she used to be a musician. Then sings off-key. Everyone claps. Kate claps too. That’s enough to keep the therapist from calling on her. She never speaks.
That night, she lies in bed thinking about the question. Tells herself she’ll write something tomorrow. She doesn’t.
—
Thirty-six days.
The whiteboard at the nurse’s station says: FAMILY VISITATION WEEK. Bubble letters. Hearts. Pink marker.
After lunch, a scrawled sticky note shows up on her door: “Individual – 2:15pm. Office C.”
Kate almost skips. She’s still on probation for ducking out of art therapy two days ago. Claimed she was too tired to draw metaphors with pastels.
She defiantly shows up at 2:16. The door’s already open. Renner again. Same cardigan.
“How’s your week?”
“Not as awful as the first one. So…fun.” Renner waits. “Family Day’s coming up.”
“I know.”
“Anyone you’d like us to invite?”
Kate picks at the lint balls on her sweatpants.
“Yelena. And the kids.”
“Anyone else?”
“No. I think.”
“If they’re not ready, that’s not a reflection on your progress.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll put in the request. If they’re open to it, we’ll work on setting expectations ahead of time.”
That sticks. If. Her own fucking kids are people she now needs to qualify for.
“I don’t think she’ll let them come.”
“Your wife?”
The word stings. Kate corrects her. Bitter.
“Ex-wife.”
“Right. I’m sorry.” A pause. “Do you want her to come?”
“Of course.”
“And if she doesn’t?”
“Then I try not to take it personal.”
“Will that be easy?”
“No.”
“What would you say to them?”
“I don’t know.”
Renner nods.
“Let’s zoom out.”
“That wasn’t zoomed out?”
“We’ve talked about Kate the mother. The partner. The addict. Who’s left?”
Kate laughs. “You tell me.”
“I can’t. That’s the work.”
“I don’t know.”
“Try anyway.”
Kate crosses her arms. Sits with it. The silence stretches nearly ten minutes. That’s the thing Kate hates about Renner. She won’t fill it. She’ll let you drown in it. And Kate always breaks first.
“I want to be someone I don’t have to apologize for.” A pause. “No. Wait. Scratch that.” She curls in tighter. “I want to be someone I wouldn’t hide from.”
Renner softens. “We can get you there.”
Kate doesn’t cry. Not yet. Later, she sits in the laundry room for twenty-three minutes and listens to someone else’s dryer hum like a heartbeat.
—
Thirty-seven days.
That night in group, the topic is accountability.
“Name someone you hurt. Say what you’d tell them.”
Kate’s turn.
“Can’t think of anyone,” she says flatly.
No one pushes. That’s the rule. Still, she feels their eyes. She wonders if any of them have kids.
Kate doesn’t sleep. But she doesn’t get up either. Just lies there. Replaying her own words from the day before. Renner’s office. That sentence she meant. Deeply. It shook something loose. Something real. Harsh. Optimistic. Dreadful. But honest.
She still doesn’t know who that person is…the version of herself she’s trying to become. But she wants to meet her. That has to count for something.
—
Thirty-eight days.
Kate doesn’t ask about Family Day during morning group. Doesn’t bring it up in her individual session with the pushy bald guy and his sad little mustache. She doesn’t want to seem desperate. She is. But she doesn’t want to seem it.
The “jogging track” is just a looping path around a dead meditation garden, ending at a chain-link fence choked in bougainvillea. She does eight laps. On the eighth, she kicks a loose stone down the path and says out loud:
“They’re not coming.”
Then she walks.
The rest of the day is static. Food tastes like paper. Group is white noise. She wants to ask if anyone else knows the hollow thunk of no longer being anybody’s priority. But she doesn’t. She’s tired of hearing herself talk. So she listens instead. Lets everyone else lie about how much hope they’ve found.
That night, she can’t sleep again. They don’t lock her door anymore. So she wanders. Barefoot, sweater on, eyes burning.
She ends up by the vending machines.
Paul, the overnight nurse, stands nearby. Clipboard. Thermos. Always the same. He raises an eyebrow. Says nothing.
Paul’s seen her at her worst. Puking into buckets. Soaked in sweat. Sobbing without sound. He’s the only person she doesn’t bother pretending for. She’s got no dignity left to protect in front of him. No performance required.
“They’re not coming,” she says.
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
Paul doesn’t argue. Just sits beside her on the floor. Legs stretched out. Offers her half a banana.
They don’t speak again the rest of the night.
—
Thirty-nine days.
A Sunday. The kind that used to mean pancakes, cartoons, lazy morning sex. The kind she used to look forward to. She finds herself looking forward to this one again.
Kate wakes before the sun even considers rising.
She showers. For real. Washes her hair. Brushes her teeth until her gums ache…three times. Her hair’s still damp when she pulls on a “real” shirt. Not regulation gray. A soft, wrinkled blue that matches her eyes. It still smells faintly of that lemon detergent Yelena loves. The collar feels foreign. She hasn’t worn one in over a month. But the charge nurse said it was allowed today. Special occasion. Family Day.
Kate double-checked it was okay. Twice.
Yelena will notice. Not quite Katherine effort, but close enough. It’s all Kate’s got. And she thinks Yelena will appreciate it. She wants that to mean something.
Before she leaves the room, she sits on the edge of the mattress and breathes. Hands flat on her thighs. Her name still scrawled in Sharpie on the laminated schedule by her bed. Her journal, blank for three days, sits untouched on the pillow. She doesn’t bring it.
The courtyard’s been transformed into something pretending to be festive.
Folding tables. Streamers. A crooked paper banner: “WELCOME LOVED ONES!” Bubble letters. A lemonade stand. Like this is a school fundraiser, not a trauma ward. There’s even a makeshift photo booth, complete with a Polaroid camera and a stack of props no one uses.
The nurse with glitter polish baked treats.
Kate doesn’t touch them. She stands off to the side near the lavender bushes, scanning the entrance.
Every sound tightens her gut. The rumble of stroller wheels. A laugh that sounds enough like Alexia’s to sting. Footsteps. None of them stop for her. Her jaw clenches. Unclenches. She keeps checking her breath against her palm.
The first arrivals come in waves.
A weepy couple in windbreakers. A teenage girl with blue hair who sprints into her mother’s arms. A dad with twin toddlers who lose their minds over the cookies. Someone’s little brother in a clip-on tie.
Kate stays standing. Doesn’t know where to sit. Doesn’t want to. Sitting means stillness, and she’s not built for stillness today.
Then she sees her.
Across the courtyard. Walking with purpose. With poise. In shoes Kate doesn’t recognize. She hates that Yelena now owns things she doesn’t know the story behind.
She’s in yellow. Not soft yellow. Warning yellow. A dress that fits in all the places Kate’s hands used to. The new shoes give her a lot of extra height, make her legs look more statuesque. The dress matches her golden hair, which is longer. So much longer than Kate remembers it. Kate’s always thought Yelena looked sexiest with long hair. Seeing her like this twists something deep and slow in her gut.
Her mane is half-pulled back, a delicate bow tying the top half. Sunglasses hide her green eyes. Kate wishes they didn’t. She wants to see them. Needs to.
Kate notices everything about Yelena. She also notices what’s missing. No diaper bag. No baby on her hip. No tiny hands clinging to her skirt.
Kate’s stomach caves in.
Then she sees Susan. Half a step behind Yelena. Still pregnant. Really pregnant. Like any-day-now pregnant. Her jacket won’t close. She waddles, one hand cradling her lower back like she’s carrying fire. She waves.
No kids attached to her either.
Kate’s feet move before her brain does. She walks over, smile plastered on like a fragile mask. They meet under the blue canopy.
Susan speaks first.
“You somehow look worse than when you were half dead.” There’s humor in it, but it wobbles. Not cruel. Just Suze’s brand of rusty love.
Kate smirks.
“That’s just how my face looks.”
Susan snorts. “Then I take offense to anyone who ever said we look alike.”
“You don’t look so hot yourself.”
Susan gestures at the belly.
“I’m cooking a human. What’s your excuse?”
Kate opens her mouth. Closes it. Shrugs. Susan softens. Steps forward. They hug. Not long. Not dramatic. But real. Kate doesn’t betray how much she needed it. When they separate, Kate turns to Yelena.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
That’s all.
Kate scans the space beside her. Still empty.
“Did something happen?”
“No. No. They’re fine,” Yelena says, quick to reassure. “Max had a birthday party. We RSVP’d weeks ago. He’s been excited all month. Alex started piano…Saturday and Sunday classes now. And Son…” Kate stays silent. “I thought about bringing her. Almost did. But it didn’t feel fair. Not to the others. Not to you. I didn’t want this to be a half-measure.” Kate nods slowly. Her throat feels raw. “We’re meeting with your care team this week. After that…depending what they say…maybe we can plan it properly.”
Kate nods again. Even as her chest hollows.
“Okay.” It comes out gravel. She doesn’t trust her voice, so she doesn’t use it again for a while.
They sit under the green canopy. Paper cups. Lemonade. A guitarist sings something soft and tuneless. No one claps.
Susan breaks the silence.
“So. How’s it going?”
Kate clears her throat. Shifts.
“I’m off the meds. Done with detox protocol. Fully clean now.”
“That’s really great. Truly.”
Kate avoids her eyes.
“You’re due soon, right?”
“Eight days.”
“Wow. Shit.”
“Yeah.” Susan tries to smile. It falters. Her hand rubs her belly. “I hate that you won’t be there.”
Yelena stiffens. Shoots her a glare. Susan winces. She definitely off script.
“But I’m glad you’re here. I am. This is where you need to be,” Susan adds quickly. Like she practiced it. “It’s what’s best right now.”
Kate nods. Doesn’t believe it.
The rest of the visit is bullshit. Weather. Food. A stupid bird dive-bombing the flowerpots. Yelena shows Kate a video of Alexia playing piano. Kate watches it twice. When she feels herself about to cry, she doesn’t ask to see it again.
Yelena doesn’t say much. Her voice is softer. Her demeanor, dimmer. Kate can’t tell if it’s restraint or exhaustion.
Eventually, the volunteer claps: “Five-minute warning!”
Susan groans. Stands. “Baby’s on my bladder. I gotta pee before the ride back.”
Kate stands too. Susan hugs her. This one tighter.
“Let me know when it happens, okay? Have someone call in. I want to know.”
“I will.”
They stay like that for a beat.
“I’m sorry…That I won’t be there. I’m really sorry,” Kate says, hushed.
“I know,” Susan whispers. “Next time.”
Kate raises a brow. “You planning to get knocked up again?”
“What? You two don’t get to be the only ones responsible for human continuity.”
Kate and Yelena share a look. Soft chuckle.
“Knowing you had sex once was traumatic enough,” Kate adds, mock disgust in her voice.
“I have lots of sex. Insane amounts.”
“Gross.”
“Even the neighbors complain. Guess I take after you in all the ways.”
Kate shoots Yelena a “what the fuck have you told my sister” look. Yelena bites back a smirk.
“That’s enough family bonding. You can leave now.”
They smile at each other. Susan kisses Kate’s cheek. Steals one last hug.
“Thank you for not dying.”
“Yeah. Working on it.”
Without another word, Susan waddles off toward the restroom, hand on her back like she’s balancing the world.
Kate turns to Yelena. Doesn’t speak.
After a beat, Yelena steps in. Wraps her arms around her. Holds her tight. Then looser. Like something precious, but fragile.
“You’re missed. And loved. Don’t forget that.”
Kate pulls back. Studies her face. Wants to ask, By who? But doesn’t.
Yelena doesn’t clarify. Doesn’t say the kids. Doesn’t say I. Just: missed. Loved.
Kate nods.
“Thank you for coming.”
Yelena nods back.
No kiss. No tears. No promises.
Yelena squeezes Kate’s forearm. Then turns and walks away. No glance back. Kate would never admit she hoped for one.
She stands in the courtyard. The music fades. The lemonade’s warm. The banner droops.
Minutes later, she watches them exit the building. Susan’s hand on Yelena’s elbow. Yelena’s jaw set. They shrink. Then disappear.
Kate is the last one left in the courtyard.
She doesn’t break right away.
She goes to her room. Folds laundry that’s already folded. Puts it in a drawer. Takes it out. Refolds. Wipes down the sink. Rearranges her toiletries like someone’s coming to inspect them.
Then she goes to group. Sits in the back. Silent. Staring at her hands like they belong to someone else. Like they’re waiting to betray her.
That night, she doesn’t eat. Not dinner. Not anything.
She’s hungry. But not for food. She’s craving something and it’s violent. A drink. A line. A stranger’s body. Something to drown in. Something to disappear inside. It thrums like electricity. Turns her skin inside out. She wants to claw away from herself.
She paces the halls. Past the nurses’ station. Once. Twice. Third time, she hears Paul’s voice before she sees him.
“You need something, Bishop?”
Kate opens her mouth. Closes it. Her jaw clicks.
“I want to get the fuck out of here.”
She storms off. Back to her room.
But she doesn’t stay. Can’t sit. Her hands shake. Her skin itches. Legs won’t stop. She paces. Breath short. Pain blooming.
A knock. Paul, leaning on the frame. Snake tattoo curled around his forearm like it’s watching her too.
“You okay?”
“Fine.”
“You sure?” Silence. “You know what I call the forty-to-sixty day stretch?” Nothing. “The kill zone.” She finally looks at him. “You’re not new anymore. So you think you should be better. But you’re not done yet. So you panic.” She resumes pacing. “I’ve seen more people walk out during the kill zone than any other time. Think they’ve got it. They don’t. Then they crash. Hard.”
“I’m not one of those losers. I just don’t want to fucking be here.” Kate barks. Voice gravel. Dangerous.
She pushes past him. Down the hall. Paul doesn’t stop her. Just follows.
She finds the clipboard. The AMA sign-out. No hesitation. Pen in hand.
“I’m assuming you got transport lined up,” Paul says, tone even.
“I’m not asking for permission.”
“Didn’t say you were.”
The form blurs. Her chest caves.
“I’m not gonna stop you. Not my job. But I’ve seen this shit. You hit the wall. Everything starts hurting worse than you thought. That’s when people run.” Kate stares at the form. Doesn’t move. “You’re not special. But you’re not broken.” Silence. “You want me to call a cab?” Nothing. “Or ping whoever’s on duty before you do something stupid?”
Still nothing. The pen trembles. A needle with no fix.
“You don’t want to be here. But you still are. That means something.”
Kate’s airway locks. She lets the clipboard fall to the counter with a flat slap. Storms down the hall.
Back in her room, she slams the door. Stares in the mirror. Doesn’t cry. Just stands in the silence. Her reflection split by the cabinet’s edge.
—
Forty days.
Kate makes her bed. Tighter than usual. Military tight.
She skips breakfast again. Not out of spite. Not punishment. Just…swallowing feels impossible today.
Outside, the sky’s a dull bruise. Windless. The paved loop circling the yard sits empty.
She walks it. Fifteen full laps. No headphones. No footsteps to match. Just breath. Rocks. The dull throb of her own limbs.
When she’s done, she parks herself on the bench near the bougainvillea. Same one as yesterday. Same spindly bush. Same useless flowers. She stays motionless. Not even a twitch.
That’s where Renner finds her.
“You didn’t come to group,” Renner points out gently.
Kate shrugs. Doesn’t look over. Renner gives it a beat.
“Can I sit?”
Kate nods. They settle into silence.
The wind stirs. A single bougainvillea petal lands on Kate’s shoe. She doesn’t brush it off.
“I’m not gonna ask how you’re feeling.”
Kate lets out a dry, scraping laugh.
“Thank fuck. I’m sick of that one.”
Renner chuckles too. Just a little.
“And I won’t tell you to visualize your best self. Or manifest joy. Or whatever Diaz is peddling this week.”
Kate snorts. “He’s got that shit off a cereal box. I guarantee it.”
Renner leans in, voice low.
“Probably. But I do have one question. If you’re open.”
Kate groans and leans back, eyes closed.
“Jesus. Whatever. Just get it over with.”
“Who are you outside of this? Not Kate the mom. Or the ex-wife. Not the business owner. The daughter. Sister. Or…” Renner quotes her directly. “Kate the fuck-up.” Silence. “Just Kate. You. Who’s that?”
Kate stares at the sidewalk. At the petal on her shoe. At the shoe itself. Her whole body feels heavy with that question.
Kate stares at the path. The edge of her sneaker. The petal still clinging to it.
“You figure that out…and we can get you out of here sooner than you think.”
Renner stands. Doesn’t wait for a reply. Leaves Kate alone with her question. And the silence.
—
Forty-one days.
Kate doesn’t get up right away. Stares at the ceiling until the spackling becomes a map. Traces continents in plaster. Imagines sailing off the edge of one.
She only moves when someone retches in the hallway. A brutal reminder. Of where she is. Of why she’s here.
She sits up. Makes her bed. Showers. Forces oatmeal down at breakfast. There’s raisins in it today.
In group, someone talks about their mother dying while they were high. Kate grinds her molars until her jaw aches. Says nothing.
During rec, she plays ping pong with the girl who used to dance. Her hands still shake holding the paddle. Kate lets her win.
After lights out, Kate lies on her back and counts ceiling tiles. Eighty-six. She does it twice to be sure.
—
Forty-two days.
In “creative expression,” someone draws their childhood bedroom.
Kate doesn’t draw at first. Just presses the pen into the paper until the tip bursts, leaving an ink bruise.
Eventually, without meaning to, her hand starts to move. She doesn’t realize it until there’s already shapes. Lines. Forms.
It’s rough. Kate’s good at a lot of things. Drawing isn’t one of them. But she knows exactly what it is.
But she knows what it is immediately. Her college bedroom. The apartment she and Yelena shared that summer after graduation. Before Boston. Before the beginning of the end.
She adores her kids. Of course she does. But this? That place? That time? Those days. Those nights. The sex. The way Yelena could drag sounds out of her she didn’t know she could make. That was the last moment she remembers being whole. Not broken. Not fighting off some unseen rot. No shame. Just her. Just love. Freedom. And Yelena. God, Yelena. The woman she loved more than anything. The way she touched her back then. The way Kate used to make her laugh. The wide open future that felt tangible. They could’ve had everything. They almost did.
If Yelena had just stayed. All she had to do was fucking stay. Kate doesn’t understand why that was so impossible.
Kate didn’t realize she was still angry. That she was angry at all.
She stares at the page. Crumples it. And with it, everything those two girls could’ve become. Kate isn’t sure about much these days. But she’s suddenly, absolutely certain: She’d never fucking be here if Yelena had turned Harvard down.
When group ends, Kate tosses the paper in the trash like she’s killing a version of herself. And maybe she is.
That night, Paul catches her stealing graham crackers from the kitchen. She pretends not to be embarrassed. He nods solemnly.
“You gonna trade those on the black market?” he deadpans.
“No one in here has the goods I’d ask for,” Kate deadpans.
He snorts. Leaves her to also steal the milk carton.
She eats alone on the floor of her room. Still tastes like cardboard. But this time, it’s her choice.
—
Forty-three days.
Kate dreams about vodka. Not drinking it. Just pouring. That sound. The glug-glug-glug. Her hands steady. Her throat dry.
She wakes soaked in sweat.
Races through her routine. Needs motion. Needs out. Runs laps until her calves burn.
Later, her therapist asks if she’s angry.
“Of course I’m angry.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. Then: “I don’t know… no, I do actually…Because people leave. They fucking leave. And I could do everything right, beg them, fix them, fix myself…and it doesn’t matter. They choose other shit. Every time. And I’m so fucking tired of not being picked.” Her voice gets low. Flat. “I’m better than heroin. I’m better than Harvard. I’m better than tea and rummy or sex with the nineteen-year-old intern. I deserved to be chosen. For fucking once. I deserve that.”
The therapist nods.
“That’s honest.”
“No,” Kate mutters. “That’s just obvious.”
—
Forty-four days.
They let Kate check her email now. Supervised. But it counts.
She opens one from Yelena. Photos. Updates. Videos.
One picture sticks: Max in a dinosaur hoodie, mid-roar. Goofy. Loud. Bright-eyed.
Something about that one hits hard. The Bishop genes remain undefeated because the boy seems to look more like her every day. And she looks just like DJ. Which means Max looks identical to her brother. Before the world fucked him. Before he vanished inside himself. Before things went dark. Before the lights behind his eyes snuffed out. And something in Kate withers.
Kate turns to the nurse hovering over her shoulder. Asks to print it. The nurse nods.
Kate stares at the photo printed on white office paper for half an hour before tucking it into her journal.
Later, in group, they learn someone who left last week has already relapsed. Came back in on med hold. OD. Barely made it.
It shakes the room. Everyone goes quiet.
Kate crushes her paper cup so tight it nearly disintegrates. She doesn’t realize she’s crying until the wet hits her shirt.
No one says anything. They don’t have to.
—
Forty-five days.
Kate can’t stop staring at the fourth chair from the left.
Where Dani always sat. Leg always tucked. Black polish always chipped. Always doodling bad tattoos on notebook margins during group. Voice like a crow from years of chain smoking. Loud. Crass. Real.
Ninety days. Dani had made it ninety fucking days.
On her last morning, she’d beamed. Said she was ready. Said she felt like she’d survived something. She hugged everyone. Promised to write. Kate believed her. Everyone did. Because Dani was laughing like she remembered how. Because she looked like someone on the other side of it.
And now she’s back in here. Back to square one.
"OD. Cardiac arrest. Paramedics had to shock her twice."
Kate overhears the nurses whispering during lunch. The words drop into her like a bomb. Her fork clatters against the tray. Her hand’s trembling so badly she can’t grip it. She bites down on the inside of her cheek until she tastes metal.
Because Dani was doing the work. She was getting better. She was what hope looked like. And now it’s all fucked again.
Kate walks out of the mess hall without permission. No explanation. Just leaves.
Outside, the sky’s gunmetal gray. Frigid. Still.
Kate sits under the bougainvillea tree and rips off flower after flower until the branch is bare and her fingers are stained.
She wants to scream. Break something. Vomit. Doesn’t.
Instead she just whispers, “Fuck.”
And then again. And again. And again. Until it doesn’t sound like a word anymore.
That night, she doesn’t eat. Doesn’t change. Doesn’t brush her teeth. Doesn’t speak.
She’s dropped more weight this week than in all the previous weeks of her stay combined.
She lies in bed, curled toward the wall, shivering in clothes that don’t fit anymore, staring at the ceiling like it owes her an apology. For the first time since arriving, Kate wonders if she’s going to survive this. Really survive it. Not just stay alive.
And a part of her, the dejected and cruel one, almost hopes she won’t.
—
Forty-six days.
Visitation Day. Again.
Kate isn’t expecting anyone. It’s midweek. Yelena wouldn’t skip work. Wouldn’t pull the kids out of school for this. She’s so sure no one’s coming, she doesn’t even bother with real clothes. Just a worn hoodie and sweats with a hole at the thigh.
Then the intercom crackles: “Kate Bishop. You have a visitor.”
She freezes. Walks to the front desk like someone stepping into traffic.
It’s Alexei. Puffy coat, solemn eyes.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” she says.
“I did not tell,” he replies. Then, quieter: “I just need to see you still really here. Myself.”
They sit at one of the outdoor picnic tables. It’s getting colder. But neither mentions it.
“You look like shit,” he says.
“So I’ve heard.”
“Means you do the work.”
They settle into silence. Until Alexei starts talking. About everything.
How Max is now obsessed with birds. How Alexia scored a goal last weekend in rec league. How the Knicks are absolute garbage this season but he’s still watching. How Sonny’s starting to form full sentences. How she finally figured out how to say “duck” but it comes out as…something entirely different and much less appropriate. And Yelena, despite herself, finds it hilarious.
Kate listens. Drinks it in like oxygen.
They don’t talk about forgiveness. Or blame. Or grace. Just life. The life still unfolding without her.
Then, after a long pause, Alexei says:
“Yelena does not know what she wants.” Kate stiffens. But he keeps going. “Does not mean you are not wanted. That is not same thing.”
Kate isn’t sure how to answer that, but before she can slide deeper into this rabbit hole, Alexei adds something else.
“See tell me to tell you hello. Yelena. She say hi.”
Kate looks away. She doesn’t trust her face won’t betray her.
When Alexei leaves some minutes later, they don’t hug. But he pats her shoulder. Kate will count that as progress.
—
Forty-seven days.
The photo of Max vanishes from her journal.
Kate tears the room apart. Yanks the mattress off the frame. Empties drawers. Hurls her journal against the wall. Journal hurled across the floor. Her pulse skitters. Electric. She finally finds it, bent and curled, wedged between the bed and the wall.
She cries with relief. Then punches the wall. Not hard enough to break it. Just enough to leave a dent. A reminder. A mark.
Later, she apologizes. To the drywall. Like it’s just another person she’s let down.
—
Forty-eight days.
Diaz tries another guided meditation. This one’s about opening a door to your future self.
Kate lasts six minutes. Then she bolts. Straight into the yard. Screams into the wind. No words. Just a raw, wordless eruption. Fury. Grief. Something deeper than both.
She skips lunch. Runs circles around the path like she can outpace her own shadow.
Renner finds her collapsed on the grass. Hair soaked. Chest heaving. Animal breathing.
She hands Kate a sandwich. Still warm. Wrapped in a napkin.
“Good vocal work earlier.”
Kate laughs so hard she hiccups. Then eats the sandwich.
—
Forty-nine days.
Kate writes a letter.
“Dear Yelena: Fuck you.
Dear Suze: Name it after me. Middle name’s fine. Kate works for all genders.
Dear kids: Don’t be like me.”
She folds the paper once. Then again. And again. Tighter. Smaller. Until it’s just a hard little shard between her fingers.
She tosses it into the fire pit. Watches it burn. She doesn’t leave until every ember dies.
—
Fifty days.
They grant her a new privilege: one phone call, once a day, right before lights-out. Ten-minute limit.
Kate dials the house. Her hands shake. Her heart’s a drumbeat in her throat.
Alexia answers. Breathless. Tiny voice.
“Hello?”
Kate forgets how to breathe.
“Hi, baby. It’s Mommy.”
A long pause. Then, tentative:
“Hi, Mommy.”
Kate’s eyes sting. She swipes at them with the heel of her palm.
“Oh my god, I’ve missed you so much.”
Another pause. Softer: “I miss you too.”
They sit in it. The silence. The awkward. Until Kate glances at the ticking timer. Her voice rushes out.
“What’ve you been up to, huh?”
“Mama bought me a piano.”
“She mentioned that. That must be so loud.”
“Max is louder.”
“NO I’M NOT! …Who are you talking to?”
Alexia ignores him. Keeps going.
“I go to lessons. I mess up a lot, but Mrs. Chen says if I keep practicing I get better.”
Kate smiles. “She’s right. But I bet you already sound amazing.”
“Yeah. That’s what Suzu also said. The baby’s still in her belly. I think it’s a girl.”
“You do?”
“Mhm. Max is mad I think it’s a girl. He wants a boy. But I dreamed it. And dreams mean stuff.”
“They do.”
There’s rustling. Shouting. A muffled scuffle. Then Max, closer now:
“SONNY! NO! Gimme! It’s my turn!”
Alexia carries on, like it’s nothing: “Max got in trouble at recess today. He said a bad word when Tommy cheated.”
“I didn’t say a bad word!” Max yells. “WHO ARE YOU TELLING LIES TO?!”
“Mommy.”
“MOMMY?!”
Kate hears the sprint of feet. Then he’s there. Breathless.
“MOMMY! I DIDN’T. He tagged me after the buzzer. That’s cheating. Right?”
“Definitely cheating.”
“I told him you’d say that.”
“I’m glad you remember how fair I am.”
“Also I drew you something, but Lex said it was ugly and then Sonny drooled on it, so I threw it away. But I’m making another one. With teeth this time.”
Kate laughs. “With teeth?”
“Yeah. Birds need teeth.”
“…Do they?”
“Mine does. Are you in jail? Theo’s dad is in jail and he can’t see him. Is that why we can’t see you? Because you’re in jail.”
Kate chokes. “No, buddy. Not jail.”
“Deda says you’re away getting better.”
“I’m trying.”
“Okay. The bird was blue. Do you want it to be blue?”
“You make it whatever color you want. I can’t wait to see it.”
“I miss you.”
Her breath catches. “I miss you too, baby.”
“SONNY! SAY HI! IT’S MOMMY!”
Chaos on the line. Max straining, probably lifting the baby. Kate hears static, little voices urging.
“Say hi!” Alexia and Max’s little voices urge her.
A pause. Then babbles that almost sound like words. Loud and wet. Static and spit. Another squeal. Another burst of gibberish. High-pitched, slurry, underwater.
“That’s not hi,” Alexia scolds, exhausted in the only way older sisters can be. “That’s just mouth noises, dummy.”
Sonny shrieks. Laughs. Then lets out a triumphant: “Bllrggggghhhh.”
“You gotta say hi, not scream,” Max adds.
Kate closes her eyes. Listens like it’s music. Like a lullaby. It’s everything. It’s heaven.
More babble. Then a perfect fart noise. Max howls with laughter.
Kate presses the phone tighter, like it might melt away if she lets go.
She laughs. Cries. Laughs again. Then…remembers the clock.
“Alex…Alexia. Hey.”
Alexia’s voice returns. “She won’t say hi. But she does. She waves when she says it too.”
“Baby, I don’t have much time. Can you put Mama on, please?”
“Mama’s not home.”
Kate stills. “Who are you with?”
“Deda.”
“Where’d Mama go?”
“Deda said she went to dinner. With a friend.”
“What friend?”
“I dunno. A new one.”
Kate stops blinking. Stops breathing. The silence swells.
“…Okay,” she manages. “Okay. Will you tell her I called?”
“Yeah.”
“I love you. I’m coming home soon, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Bye, baby.”
“Bye, Mommy.”
The line clicks off.
Kate doesn’t move. Doesn’t hang up. Just stares at the receiver like it might come back to life. Start talking again.
Then she turns to the nurse behind the desk.
“Can I make one more? Just a quick one. I need to call my wife.”
The nurse shakes their head. “One call per night.”
“That wasn’t ten minutes.”
“You get ONE call, Bishop.”
Kate slams the phone down. The whole desk jumps. Then she walks away.
Hours later, Paul finds her in the hallway. Not pacing. Not clenched. Just…still.
“You good?” he asks.
Her voice is hoarse. “I need a session. Now.”
He studies her face. Something’s ruptured. Maybe something important.
“I’ll call.”
Minutes later, Kate sits cross-legged on the therapy couch. Renner looks as professional as she can at 11:48PM. Half-asleep. She doesn’t ask anything. Merely waits.
Kate speaks quietly. Controlled.
“Yelena doesn’t ‘go out with friends.’ Especially not ones the kids don’t know. She doesn’t do that. She doesn’t…” She stops. Gets up. Starts pacing. “She couldn’t even wait for me to get out of this shithole. Jesus Christ.”
“You’re building a narrative from virtually no information,” Renner offers, gentle but firm.
“I know her. Better than anyone. I know what this is.”
Renner nods once.
“Even if you’re right…you don’t have a say anymore.”
Kate stops. Turns.
“She’s my wife.”
“You’ve corrected me every time I’ve called her that.”
“Yeah, well. We’re still legally fucking married.”
Renner exhales.
“Technicalities aside…”
“Don’t. I didn’t call her. I could’ve. Could’ve screamed. Accused. Called her out on all her bullshit. But I didn’t. So just…don’t.”
Renner softens. “That’s good.”
Kate stares at her. “Is it?”
Renner doesn’t answer. Just tilts her head.
“What stopped you?”
Silence stretches.
Kate’s temper fades. Her fists unclench. Her chest sinks like a deflated balloon. Finally, she sits again. Voice low.
“I don’t want to be angry anymore. I’m so tired of it.” She looks away. Her throat tightens. “I don’t want to be that version of me anymore.”
Kate takes a breath. The first real, full one in a very long time.
“I can’t remember what it feels like to not be furious all the fucking time… but I want to.”