My husband was breathing.

Faintly, impossibly, but breathing.

“Call 911!” I screamed.

And instantly, Marcus’s hand closed around my forearm in a hard, controlling grip.

“Claire,” he said, low and urgent.

“Think about what you’re doing.” I turned and looked him dead in the eye, and I said the truest thing I had said all day.

“That,” I told him, “is exactly what I’m doing.

For the first time since you called me this morning.” I wrenched my arm free.