I SPENT ELEVEN YEARS SHARING MY HUSBAND WITH A HOSPITAL. THE DAY I SURPRISED HIM WITH LUNCH, THE NURSES WOULDN’T MEET MY EYES, AND HIS BEST FRIEND TOOK ONE QUICK LOOK AT ME AND BRO.KE DOWN.

Even the tight months.

Especially the tight months.

Last spring, it held over fifty-two thousand dollars.

The screen said $9,140.

I refreshed the page.

$9,140.

I scrolled down.

April: $6,000.

May: $8,500.

June: $11,000.

July: $5,000.

August: $7,500.

September: $5,000.

Every withdrawal went to the same place.

Saint Brigid Memorial Patient Accounts.

I closed the laptop.

I opened it again.

The numbers didn’t change.

I went to the sink.

I thought I was going to be sick.

I wasn’t.

I just stood there gripping the counter until my hands stopped shaking.

Then I picked up my phone.

I didn’t call Nate.

I called Denise.

She met me at the Hollow Diner at two.

She was still in her scrubs.

Hers had stains on them.

She slid into the booth across from me.

She didn’t order.

“I figured you’d call,” she said.

“Did you know about the money?”

Her face said no.

Then it said oh no.

“What money?”