THE hospital room smelled faintly of antiseptic and lemon; pale blue walls, a single window with blinds half drawn, a metal tray on a trolley, and the soft beep of monitors somewhere down the corridor. A plastic chair sat opposite the bed, and on it sat Adrian. Overhead lights made everything too clear, too clinical.

Vivian was in the bed, stripped of perfume and make-up, hair matted and mussed from the seizure and the rush to the ER. Her hospital gown rode up where her hand pressed uselessly at her belly; her face was raw and hollow, the bravado scrubbed away. Across from her, Adrian sat very still, the day's...