I woke up to the smell of antiseptic and the sterile hum of a heart monitor, but the most terrifying thing in the room was the man holding my hand.
He sat there, the light from the Seattle General hallway casting him in a saintly glow. To anyone else, he was a portrait of a grieving, terrified husband. His eyes were red-rimmed, his hair slightly disheveled, and his voice was a ragged whisper of devotion. But I knew the truth. I knew that the hand currently stroking my knuckles was the same one that had, only hours ago, been wrapped around my throat.
“Stay with me, Sarah,” he murmured, his voice thick with a performance so polished it would have won an Oscar. “The doctors said you had a terrible fall. I thought I’d lost you.”
