After lunch, Elaine Miller headed back toward the flower shop to collect a few things she’d left behind.

Charleigh Flores was bouncing off the walls, insisting on tagging along. Arthur Bennett didn't have the heart to say no, and Elaine, softened by the girl's persistent energy, finally gave in. "Fine, I'll keep an eye on her," she promised.

They were halfway there when a sharp, searing pain ripped through Elaine’s abdomen.

Her face went bloodless in an instant. She doubled over, clutching her stomach, desperately trying to stifle a scream that threatened to tear its way out of her throat.

Charleigh panicked instantly. "Elaine? Oh my god, Elaine, what’s wrong?!"

Elaine couldn't catch her breath, let alone speak. She gestured weakly toward her pocket, hoping Charleigh would understand and call for an ambulance. But Charleigh, clearly losing her head, blindly dialed the one person whose number she knew by heart.

"Uncle Arthur!" she shrieked into the phone, her voice thick with tears. "Elaine is hurting so bad, I don't know what to do!"

There was a sudden shuffling on the other end, the sound of someone scrambling out of bed.

"Don't cry," Arthur’s voice came through—calm, steady, and dangerously focused. "Tell me exactly where you are."

"We're on Northwood Street..."

By the time Arthur skidded to a stop at the curb, Elaine had already collapsed onto the pavement, slipping into unconsciousness. His expression darkened, all trace of composure vanishing as he scooped her up and raced toward the hospital.

***

When Elaine finally cracked her eyes open, she heard the doctor’s sharp, clinical tone hitting Arthur like a lash.

"What exactly has she been put through? Why is her body covered in so many old scars?" The doctor paused, his voice tight with professional indignation. "She’s completely depleted. Her health has been neglected for years! Do you people even care if she survives?"

Arthur stood in the doorway, his silhouette imposing. He didn't offer a single excuse. He just lowered his head and muttered, "I apologize. I will make sure it doesn't happen again."

The doctor let out a frustrated huff and stormed off.

Elaine struggled to push herself up, a wave of guilt crashing over her. "I'm so sorry, Arthur. I didn't mean to get you scolded like that..." She paused, glancing around the sterile room. "You brought me here? Thank you. I’ll make sure to Venmo you for the medical bills as soon as I can."

Arthur sat down on the edge of the bed, his brow furrowed in frustration. "Forget the money. Elaine, will you for once just tell me... where did those scars come from?"

Elaine went dead silent, focusing intently on the pattern of the hospital bedsheets.

Arthur seemed to realize he’d overstepped, a flicker of regret crossing his features. "I’m sorry. I just—"

"It’s fine," Elaine said, swiftly changing the subject. "I think I’m actually a little hungry."

Arthur looked like a man clutching at a lifeline to redeem himself. "I'll go fix you some oatmeal."

"...Absolutely not!"

Elaine’s reaction was instinctive. She had had the misfortune of trying Arthur’s cooking once before. One spoonful, and she had immediately understood why Charleigh’s reaction to his culinary experiments was so visceral. Some people were simply not meant to step foot in a kitchen.

"It’s way too much trouble," Elaine said, forcing a polite, strained smile. "I’ll just order some takeout."

Arthur glared at her, looking as though he were about to launch into a lecture on the dangers of processed food that even Charleigh wouldn't dare touch. But before he could start, a phone rang, saving Elaine from the impending doom of a home-cooked meal.

She let out a quiet sigh of relief and reached for her phone. Her thumb froze mid-air.

It was an international call.

Who could this be?

She hesitated for a heartbeat before tapping accept. A weary, familiar voice crackled through the speaker.

"Elaine? It’s me," Greta Spencer said. "Marcellus is sick. He’s delirious, and even in his fever dreams, he won't stop whispering your name."

There was a heavy pause on the line.

"Would you consider coming back?"