They would tell me to rest.
They would call Quasi.
The thought made my skin go cold.
I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Slow enough to keep from hyperventilating, even though panic clawed at my ribs.
Outside his world. I needed help from outside his world.
That’s when my father’s voice returned to me, vivid as if he were in the passenger seat.
A father sees things a daughter in love doesn’t want to see.
Two years earlier, Dad had been in a hospital room at Emory, Braves game murmuring on the TV, the air smelling like antiseptic and stale coffee. His skin had been thinner then, stretched tight over bones, but his eyes had still been sharp.
“Ayira,” he’d said, gripping my hand. “I don’t trust that husband of yours.”
I had laughed, offended. “Daddy, stop. Quasi takes care of us.”
Dad had stared at me for a long time. “Love is what a man does when no one’s watching,” he’d said finally. “If you ever need real help, call this person.”
He’d pressed a card into my palm.
ZUNARA OKAFOR, Attorney at Law.
On the back, in his shaky handwriting: KEEP THIS.
I’d tucked the card into my wallet and tried to forget the conversation. It felt like betrayal to even consider my father might be right.
Now my wallet was probably burning in the remains of a house that used to feel like security.
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