The Year I Stopped Being His novel Chapter 384

The nurse picked up the new wristband, ready to secure it around Sloane's wrist.

"Hold on a second," Sloane pulled her hand back, pointing toward the end of the hall, wearing a perfectly calculated, slightly embarrassed expression. "Let me run to the restroom first. I just got my hands wet washing my face, and I don't want to ruin the new one right away."

The nurse nodded, placed the new band on the counter, and tossed the scissors back into the drawer. "No problem. Go ahead, I'll put it on when you get back."

"Thanks," Sloane offered a quick smile and headed down the hallway.

She kept a steady, unhurried pace, walking right past her own room and pushing through the bathroom door at the far end of the corridor.

She stood inside for exactly ten seconds before peeking through the crack in the door. The nurse was already back to resting her chin in her hand, staring blankly at her computer screen. Sloane slipped out of the bathroom and turned in the opposite direction.

She bypassed the nurses' station completely, grabbed her backpack and cello from where she had stashed them, and pushed open the door to the stairwell.

It was pitch black inside, illuminated only by the eerie green glow of the emergency exit signs.

Sloane leaned against the wall, bending over to catch her breath. Her heart was pounding so violently it bruised her ribs. She strained her ears, listening for any sign of pursuit. Nothing. The nurse was probably still waiting for her to come back.

She hurried down the stairs, flight after flight, rounding the corners until she pushed through the ground-floor fire door and stepped into the hospital lobby.

At 2:30 AM, the lobby was deserted. Behind the main information desk, the security guard on duty was fast asleep, head thrown back, snoring loudly.

She walked right past him. The automatic glass doors detected her heat signature and slid open silently.

The night wind slammed into her.

She glanced back at the hospital building. A few windows on the fifth floor were still lit, and one of them—she recognized the exact position—was Garrison's office.

She turned away and disappeared into the night.

She had been locked in that room for far too long, so long she had almost forgotten what rain tasted like.

Everything she had breathed lately was filtered—bleach, rubbing alcohol, latex gloves, sterile sheets packed in vacuum bags. The air always held a dry, chemical chill, as if entirely devoid of moisture and emotion.

But right now, the wind was real wind, the rain was real rain, and the night was a real night.

With a cello on her back and a suitcase in her hand, she stood on the street at 2:30 in the morning.

She was wearing her gray hoodie, hood down, the damp air clinging to her hair.

She didn't have a phone—when she woke up, she had asked Garrison for hers, but he just told her it was broken... which made sense, given it had been ten years.

She had no one to contact, only a brown envelope Lexi had slipped her, containing some cash—a little over two thousand dollars.