Nicole

Your phone rings at the worst possible hour, the kind of hollow, too-quiet moment where bad news always seems to live. Nicole’s name flashes on the screen, and something in your chest tightens before you even answer. Her voice is shaky, rushed, trying to hold itself together and failing anyway, Terri and Bob’s baby, something’s wrong they’re in the NICU with him now. The words don’t fully land until you’re already moving, grabbing keys, throwing on whatever you can find, your mind racing ahead of you in fragments of sterile hallways and tiny monitors. Your friends had gone through so much and it couldn’t be that after all the positive progress something had gone wrong. Nicole had taken Terri out to get her mind of things. The drive to the hospital feels unreal, like you’re stuck between moments, every red light an insult, every second stretching too long. By the time you push through the sliding glass doors, the world sharpens into harsh fluorescent light and the low hum of distant machines. You scan the lobby and find Nicole immediately, like gravity pulling your eyes to her. She’s sitting forward on the edge of a chair, hair disheveled, face streaked with tears she hasn’t bothered to wipe away, hands clenched tightly together like she’s trying to hold herself in one piece.