THE PNEUMONIA CAME fast and furious, a thief in the night, robbing her of air. She was dimly aware of feeling awful, her chest heavy. Two days ago, on their third anniversary, she’d been fine.

In a matter of hours, that changed. She’d been tired when she went to bed, sure, but somewhere in the night, true exhaustion set in. She pushed the covers back, too hot, then fell back asleep, the fatigue heavy and black. She coughed, her back spasming, but even that sharp, twisting pain wasn’t enough to keep her awake. Her chest was working, trying to get enough air. She could hear the noise of her own breathing—gasping—but she was so, so tired.

“Honey? Lauren?”

With an effort, she opened her heavy eyes.

“I think you’re sick,” he said, and she nodded, her head like an anvil. A sharp pain stabbed her on each inhale. He clipped the O2 monitor to her forefinger and stared at it, then put on the stethoscope and listened to her lungs. “Shit,” he said. “Can you cough, honey? Get some gunk up?”

This was not their first go-round with pneumonia, after all. He pulled her upright and she tried, coughing into a tissue. Gross. Nasty, thick mucus the color of moss. Not a great sign. More coughing, accompanied by a wrenching back spasm. Josh massaged the muscle and increased her oxygen flow.

After her first round of pneumonia, they’d bought a percussion vest, a heavy, battery-operated thing that looked like a life jacket. Josh clipped it onto her now, and the thudding began; it was designed to loosen phlegm and help her clear her lungs. It felt like she was being punched, and she nearly tipped over with exhaustion. She tried to breathe deeply but the stabbing pain cut her off.

“Try huffing, sweetheart,” he said, phone to his ear. “Hey, Dr. Bennett, it’s Joshua Park. Lauren’s got pneumonia again, I think. O2 sat is seventy-nine, lungs have crackles and she’s sweaty and feverish.”

Lauren got some more crap out of her lungs, but it was scary, how much shit was in there.

Then she was asleep again, even with the vest pounding away. She was aware that Josh was carrying her, putting her in the car, since it would be faster than the ambulance. He held her hand as he drove; it was only a few minutes.

He pulled up in front of the ER doors, got out and carried her inside. “My wife has pulmonary fibrosis, and it looks like she has pneumonia. She’s a patient of Dr. Bennett’s, and she needs a bed. Now.”

They listened to him. She was a frequent flier here, after all.

Then she was in a bed, and there were a lot of people around her, and they were saying the too-familiar words—sats down, temperature up, heart rate too fast.

“Lauren? We’re going to intubate you, hon,” said Carol, one of her favorite nurses.

Lauren looked at Josh, his face tight with fear, held up her hand with the thumb, forefinger and pinkie sticking up. I love you in sign language. Then she made the L sign and put it against her forehead. Loser. Their little joke. Her arm flopped back on the bed.

He managed a smile. “I love you, too, loser.” One of the nurses gave him a sharp look, and Lauren smiled. There was the pinch of a needle, and then she was floating on the darkness.

Later, Jen was also there.

“Fight it, sis,” she whispered, her eyes wet.

Lauren nodded, squeezed Jen’s hand, fell back into the nothingness of sedation. Was she dying? The pneumonia was different this time, heavier, bigger.

The next time she woke up, there was her mom, white-faced, hair messy. Sarah, murmuring something, smelling nice. More sleeping. Stephanie, smiling encouragingly. “You’re doing fine, sweetheart,” she said. “Rest.”

And always, Josh, calm, steady, there every time she opened her eyes. She knew time was passing because of the stubble on his face. Oh, Josh. She loved him so much. She wanted to know how sick she was, but she couldn’t talk, so she just raised her eyebrows and looked at him.

He didn’t move for a minute, then gave a small nod. “It’s pretty bad, honey.”

She pressed her hands together to make a heart, and he smiled, but tears were in his eyes. Then sleep pulled her again, down, down, into the soft, comforting blackness.

Later, she was asleep but not as much. Floating. Something large and heavy was on her chest, and even with the ventilator pushing air into her, she could tell it wasn’t enough. She was so tired. Even though she’d been asleep, she was exhausted.

Was this it? Was she really dying this time? She wanted Pebbles, her sweet little companion through all this. She wanted to see the kids, but she didn’t want them to be scared or . . . and then she was back in the nothingness.

Awake again. Josh in a different shirt. Time had passed, then. She just wanted to look at him, drink him in. Jen was crying, so unlike her. Lauren raised her middle finger, and smiled around the tube, and everyone laughed. Josh kissed her hand, and oh, that smile, those eyes, his beautiful face.

Yes. She was fairly sure she was dying. Panic flashed, but the nothingness sucked her down again.

Sleep, wake for a few minutes, sleep, smile, squeeze Josh’s hand, sleep. She dreamed of Hawaii, swimming in the impossibly blue waters off the Nāpali Coast. She was in their honeymoon house and heard the roosters. She dreamed of holding Octavia as a newborn, and woke up to feel the baby snuggled against her, the smell of her head so welcome in the midst of the sharp and sour smells of the hospital. She stroked her niece’s cheek and was asleep again, dreaming of Octavia as a teenager, her hair so dark and beautiful, and Octavia was talking about a dance and what to wear. Sebastian was kissing her cheek and playing with her hand, in real life or in the dream. She felt a tug. Real life, then. She opened her eyes to smile at him and touch his cheek. Her arm felt as heavy as lead.

She dreamed of him as an adult, driving her to the Cape house, which was different in the dream, but the same. Pebbles was in the back of the car, and Josh was waiting for her on the deck, smiling, wearing that awful Western shirt from the Hope Center reopening. Then she was at Sarah’s wedding and forgot she was maid of honor and was trying to put on makeup as she stood on the altar. Josh washed her face with a warm cloth, and fixed things. These were all the things she’d miss, she realized. The washcloth felt so real.