Since Lila’s mother had died two years earlier after a sudden illness, their lives had narrowed into a careful routine built around her health. They lived in a modest apartment above a closed bakery on the south end of town. The building smelled faintly of old sugar and yeast, and the stairs creaked loudly enough that Lila liked to pretend the apartment was a pirate ship. Her lungs, however, did not enjoy games. A simple cold could turn into something frightening in a matter of hours.
Thomas learned to listen closely to her breathing. He learned the difference between a cough that could wait and one that could not. He learned how to stay calm when fear pressed against his ribs.
One cold morning, Lila woke up pale and shivering, her breaths shallow and tight. She tried to smile at him, her eyes too bright.
“My chest feels funny,” she whispered.
Thomas checked the cabinet where he kept her medication and felt his stomach sink when he saw the empty space. He reached for his wallet and counted the bills twice, hoping the numbers might change.
They did not. He called his supervisor from outside the job site, his breath fogging the air as trucks rumbled past.