PROLOGUE
BREATHING THROUGH A STRAW
The first thing I do every morning is count.
In for four. Hold for two. Out for six.
Repeat until the wheeze stops sounding like gravel in my chest.
Living with cystic fibrosis is like breathing through a straw.
Always. Even on good days. Especially on good days, because you know it won't last.
I'm used to it.
Used to the 5:30am nebulizer that sounds like a dying robot.
Used to the pills lined up like little soldiers: enzymes, vitamins, antibiotics.
Used to the way people look at me in public and take a step back.
Six feet apart.
That's the rule. For CF patients. Because one infection and you're done.
My whole life has been measured in distance.
This is why Room 214 feels smaller today.
"Morning, Miss Hart."
His voice is calm. Low. The kind of voice that doesn't belong in a hospital at 7 am.
I don't look up from my breathing treatment. If I do, I'll have to see him.
Dr. Hale.
Third admission this year.
He was here for the first two. Same calm voice. Same clipboard. Same distance.
"Vitals look stable," he says. I hear the pen click. "O2 at 92. That's up from last time."
"Progress," I mutter through the mask.
Progress is my least favourite word.
Everyone says it like it's a destination.
Around here...
It's usually just permission to stay another day.
The machine hisses. In for four. Hold for two. Out for six.
I feel him before I see him.
Doctors are supposed to stand at the foot of the bed.
Six feet.
Protocol.
He takes one step closer.
Just enough to read the monitor.
Then stops.
Five feet.
Close enough for coffee.
Not close enough to forget the rules.
Not touching. Just... closer.
Close enough that I can smell coffee and hospital soap.
"You're holding your breath," he says quietly.
My eyes snap open.
He's watching the monitor, not me. Dark hair, tired eyes, white coat that's seen too many night shifts.
But he noticed.
I stopped breathing for three seconds when he walked in.
"Sorry," I say. "Habit."
"Don't be." He finally looks at me. "Most people do that around doctors.
You're just more obvious about it."
The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile.
He steps back. Back to six feet. Back to Dr. Hale, Pulmonology.
Back to safe.
"I'll be back after rounds," he says. "Try not to borrow trouble while I'm gone."
Borrow.
The word sticks.
Because that's what I do.
Borrow time. Borrow air. Borrow normal.
Return it all with interest at the end.
The door clicks shut.
And for the first time in 19 years, I don't count my breaths for a full minute after he leaves.
I forget to count.
For exactly sixty-two seconds.
Then I remember who I am.
And start again.
