Boyd couldn’t remember all those medical terms; he just knew Emma was in a terrible state now.

“Okay. Got it.”

After hanging up, Jamison turned to his wife. “Emma’s awake. Didn’t you say you wanted to go see her?”

Ivy was taken aback. “She really is hard to kill, isn’t she?”

“Not for much longer,” Jamison explained. “If she’d taken care of herself and cooperated with the treatment, even with HIV she could’ve lived at least another decade, maybe longer. But she’s been hell-bent on self-destruction. Now her body’s falling apart, her immune system’s shot, the virus has invaded every organ. She doesn’t have much time left.”

“In that case, of course I want to see her.” Ivy glanced at him. “Do you have time?”

“Yeah. I just need to make arrangements at work.”

Though Ivy had been recovering well these days, major injuries take time to heal. Her back still couldn’t handle standing for long.

Jamison helped her out of bed, dressed her, then wheeled her outside in her wheelchair.

After more than two weeks cooped up in her hospital room, Ivy was finally able to get out for a bit. The whole way, she kept gazing at the world beyond the window.

In just a matter of days, the trees lining the street had lost all their yellow leaves, their branches left bare.

On the radio, the weather forecast was droning: a sharp drop in temperature was coming, and the first snow of winter might arrive in the next few days.

She murmured absentmindedly, “It’s going to snow.”

Jamison glanced over. “You like snow?”

She didn’t answer. Her mind had drifted back to those three years she’d been trafficked, when nothing terrified her more than snow–or the melting of snow.

That kind of cold went beyond words.

When it got unbearable, she’d curl up next to the pigs for warmth just to survive the night.

Back then, every day was about survival—how to make it through one more day.

She never dared dream that she’d live to see a day like this.

Instead, she’d rehearsed revenge against Emma, over and over in her mind.

Now, it had finally happened.

Emma was dying…

Jamison noticed her silence, saw the distant look in her eyes as she stared outside. She looked exhausted, or maybe just lost in thought.

He gently pulled her against his chest. “If you’re tired, get some sleep. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

Ivy snapped out of it, trying to pull away from his embrace.

He let out a helpless, amused sigh. “A little cuddle won’t hurt. That virus isn’t as terrifying as you think.”

With that, he tightened his arms, pulling her back into his hold before she could slip away.

Thanks to Jamison’s arrangements, when they arrived at Pinevale Regional Medical Center, the staff had everything ready. After changing into sterile gowns, they were taken straight into the ICU.

Emma was awake, just as Boyd had said.

But she was still incredibly frail. Tubes snaked from her body, draining dark blood and cloudy fluids into bags–a sight that made even the most hardened hearts skip a beat.

She lay there like the living dead, motionless, her heart rate on the monitor lower than normal, but steady.

Then, as she caught sight of the approaching couple–her gaze landing on Ivy, sitting in the wheelchair–her eyes suddenly sharpened, a wild spark flaring in their depths. The once-steady heart monitor started to beep frantically.

Jamison warned, “If you get this worked up, you’ll end up killing yourself faster.”

Emma’s mouth moved behind the ventilator, muffled sounds escaping, but no words anyone could understand.

Jamison and Ivy were both covered head to toe in protective gear, even their mouths and noses masked. There was nothing to be afraid of.