It was also the first real boundary I had placed between us in years.
For one second, Caleb looked stunned, as though the possibility of my refusal had never occurred to him.
His grip loosened just enough for me to believe he might step back.
Then his expression hardened.
He drove both fists into my stomach.
The pain turned the room white.
All the air vanished from my lungs as my body folded forward against the weight of the casts.
A scream tore from me while the heart monitor erupted into a frantic alarm.
The injury was not only where his fists landed.
Pain shot through my fractured ribs, spread across my abdomen, and climbed into my chest until breathing felt impossible.
My fingers slipped against the rail.
I tasted something metallic and fought not to lose consciousness.
Caleb stood over me, breathing hard.
Outside the room, the hospital had records of everything.
His name was in the visitor log.
My medication schedule was at the nurses’ station.
My admission time was documented as 6:42 p.m.
A bright yellow fall-risk warning was attached to my file.
The doctors had written clear instructions about my limited movement.
Every nurse assigned to me understood that transferring me required care, equipment, and assistance.
