EMBER’S POV

The hospital smells like every hospital I’ve ever been in, which is too many hospitals for a woman my age.

Antiseptic and recycled air and the faint, sweet undertone of something floral that the ventilation system pumps through the corridors to mask the fact that people come here to find out whether their lives are about to change for the worse.

Maurice went into surgery two hours ago. I wait in a terrible, beige room filled with violently uncomfortable chairs.

The television in the corner plays a cooking show on mute.

I watch a woman silently chop onions, acutely aware that a team of strangers is cutting open...