of chafing. The doctors—and when I said “doctors,” I meant ten of them— were pleased with my condition enough they told me I could be discharged in a couple days. As much as I wanted out of the hospital, nerves turned my stomach about what I would do when I left. The fifth day, the boy delivered another package. Déja vu raised goose bumps on my arms when I opened the box. It contained another lemonyellow faux fur coat with “Kotyonok” stitched on the collar. Get it dirty. But NEVER again with blood. —Ronan I put it on and fell onto the bed like I had a month ago in an entirely different situation, my heart thumping hard. I pressed my nose in the fur, hoping—needing—it to smell like Ronan. It didn’t. And as the ache in my chest rose to burn my eyes, Khaos nudged me with his head. I cuddled up beside him and whispered to him and another who couldn’t hear, “Ya lyublyu tebya.” I love you. The sixth day, the boy delivered a new iPhone, my passport, ID, an obscene amount of cash, and a plane ticket to Miami that left the next day. My hands shook as I picked up the note and read it. A single tear fell, smearing the ink. This ISN'T proshchau. —Ronan The seventh day, I was being discharged. The nurses packed up my things while I sat on the bed, knees to my chest, waiting. Waiting for the boy to arrive and give me something else from Ronan. Anything. But he never came. Heart heavy, its beat rebelling in my chest, I gave one last look at my hospital room before walking out. A car picked me up and drove me to the airport while I moved on autopilot, unable to do anything as my body was pulled in two different directions.