Clara Mendoza walked into St. Gabriel Medical Center on a cold Tuesday morning in January carrying a small rolling suitcase, a wool sweater she had owned since her sophomore year of college, and the particular kind of exhaustion that does not come from a single bad night but from nine consecutive months of getting through things alone. She had packed the bag three times. The first time she had included a novel she knew she would not read and a candle that the hospital would not allow, and she had stood there in her bedroom looking at the bag for a long time before she took those things out and replaced them with practical items. Extra socks. The phone charger. A photograph of no one in particular, just the view from her old apartment window, taken one afternoon when the light was doing something worth keeping.

There was no one beside her.No husband. No mother who had flown in from San Antonio. No best friend who had been waiting for this call for months and had already cleared her calendar. There was only Clara, twenty-six years old, breathing through a contraction with the focused inwardness of a person who has learned that unavoidable pain cannot be negotiated with, only moved through, and the weight of everything she had not permitted herself to fall apart about since the previous July.