Eight years. Eight years I'd thrown away on nothing.
Maybe it was the grief. That night, a fever hit hard.
I held an ice pack against my forehead, shifted it to my neck, my arms—none of it made a difference.
I had no choice. I knocked on Leonard's door.
"I think I have a fever..."
Before I could finish, I collapsed into him.
Leonard fumbled for his phone—hands shaking, already dialing for an ambulance—but Naomi grabbed his arm.
"Don't!"
"She goes to the hospital, they'll hook her up to an IV. The second they pump medication into her, the surgery the day after tomorrow is finished!"
Leonard stood there, not moving. "Then what do I do? I can't just stand here and watch her burn up!"
Naomi took a deep breath. "Put her in the bathtub. A night of soaking and the fever will break."
I fought to stay conscious, my fingers twisting into his shirt.
"Leonard... take me... to the hospital..."
"Please… take me…"
"To the hospital…"
Naomi shook her head at him. "No."
Leonard glanced at Naomi, clenched his jaw, and said, "Fine. Go run the bath."
Whatever hope I'd still been holding onto died right there.
For the sake of Naomi's surgery, my life wasn't worth a second thought to Leonard.