A ragged sob tore out of me. I threw the iPad; it shattered against the wall.

I curled into a ball and ripped the IV from the back of my hand, not caring as blood pooled on the white sheets.

I wanted to disappear. I wanted the machine to stop beeping.

The door flew open. A woman in dark blue scrubs rushed in — wild dark curls in a messy bun, eyes the color of a stormy sea.

She didn’t call security. She didn’t yell at me for the tablet. She clamped a gloved hand over my bleeding vein and wrapped her other arm around my shaking shoulders.

“I’ve got you,” she whispered, her voice a low, steady anchor in the hurricane. “I’ve got you, Emily. Breathe with me. Come on, kiddo. One breath.”