"No—Hannah, come back here, don't put on your shoes!" The shoelaces knotted under the porch light like a countdown. Hannah grinned, small backpack bouncing, and tugged one foot free. "Mom, we're gonna be late! Kensley said—" Ivory lunged and then let herself collapse as if the world had given up on her knees. She clutched her side with both hands, made the breath ragged, kept the sound sharp and small so it would scare instead of alarm. Hannah froze, eyes wide, then leaned forward like a little lifeguard. "Mom?" Hannah's voice hit the exact small, bright pitch that used to break Ivory open and still did—only now it hit whatever was behind the open wound and went away. "Did you fall? Are you okay? Should I call an ambulance?" Ivory blinked up at the porch sky, practiced and precise. It had to work. Her left hand slid to the heel of the vision she'd carried for a year: hospital lights, the smell of disinfectant, the way a nurse's hand had been too gentle on a small chest that wouldn't rise. That memory still smelled like iron. She let a flash of it pass through her and folded it into the act so the tremor would feel true. "Don't—" she rasped, fingers white at the fabric of her jeans. "No ambulances. Not today. Not—" Breath hitch. She curled her face into pain. "Hannah. Stay. Stay with me. Please." Hannah's small body