By Lunchtime

"Recovery has a grammar, just like anything else. Eat the breakfast. Answer the questions. Show them the version of yourself they need to see."

I woke knowing what I had to do.

The fluorescent lights were still there—still buzzing, still casting their institutional pallor over everything—but something had shifted in the night. They felt less like punishment now, less like the confirmation of my worst fears. They were just lights. Unpleasant, yes. Ugly. But just lights. I could survive them for a few more hours.

That was the difference, I realised. A few more hours. Not days, not weeks, not the endless purgatory I'd been dreading. Today I was getting out of here. I could feel it in my bones—a certainty that had crystallised somewhere in the dark hours between midnight and dawn, hardening into something that felt almost like purpose.

I'd slept, surprisingly. Not well—the hospital sounds had kept intruding, footsteps and beeping and the distant murmur of voices—but I'd slept. More than I had in days, probably. The medication they'd given me had pulled me under despite my resistance, and I'd surfaced feeling not rested exactly, but clearer. Sharper. More present in my own body than I'd been since—

Since before.

I pushed myself up against the pillows, taking inventory. My head still felt slightly foggy, the remnants of whatever sedative they'd used clinging to the edges of my thoughts. My feet throbbed dully beneath their bandages—a constant reminder that I couldn't quite ignore. My mouth tasted stale, medicinal, wrong. But I was awake. I was thinking. I was here.

And I was leaving.

The morning light filtered through the blinds in pale stripes, catching dust motes that drifted through the air like tiny lost things. Early still—maybe seven, seven-thirty. The ward was stirring around me, that particular rhythm of a hospital waking up: trolley wheels squeaking in the corridor, muffled conversations at the nurses' station, someone coughing in a room nearby.

I waited.

Breakfast arrived at eight, delivered by an orderly who barely glanced at me as she set the tray on my bedside table—toast going cold under plastic wrap, a small container of margarine, a cup of tea that smelled like it had been brewed from dust. A bowl of something that might have been porridge, its surface developing a skin already.

I made myself eat.

Not because I was hungry—my stomach was a tight knot that wanted nothing to do with food—but because I understood what eating meant. Eating meant functional. Eating meant stable. Eating meant this woman is taking care of herself, is engaging with the basic requirements of being alive, is ready to return to the world.

The toast was dry and caught in my throat. I washed it down with the lukewarm tea, grimacing at the taste. The porridge was worse—gluey, bland, the texture of something that had given up on being food. But I ate it anyway, reluctant spoonfuls that I barely tasted, forcing myself to swallow.

By the time the nurse arrived, the tray was half-empty. Evidence.

"Morning, Claire. How'd you sleep?"

Her name was Trish—a woman in her fifties with a broad, weathered face and the no-nonsense manner of someone who'd been doing this job for decades. She'd been on the night shift, had checked on me periodically through the dark hours, her torch sweeping briefly across my face before moving on. I'd pretended to be asleep each time, not wanting to engage, not ready to perform.

But now I was ready.

"Better than I expected," I said, and found it was almost true. "I think I actually slept for a few hours straight."

Trish nodded, wrapping the blood pressure cuff around my arm. "That's good. Your body needed it."

The cuff inflated, squeezing tight, and I watched her face as she read the numbers. Looking for any flicker of concern, any indication that something was wrong. But her expression remained neutral, professional.

"One-twenty over eighty," she announced. "That's improved from yesterday."

"Is that good?"

"It's normal. Which is what we want to see."

She moved on to the other checks—temperature, pulse, oxygen levels. I submitted to each one, keeping my face pleasant, my responses appropriate. When she asked about pain, I told her my feet were sore but manageable. When she asked about my appetite, I gestured to the half-eaten breakfast. When she asked how I was feeling overall, I said tired but better, definitely better than yesterday.

"Cold one out there this morning," Trish remarked as she made notes on her clipboard. "Frost on the ground when I came in. They're saying it might get down to minus three tonight."

"Really?" I made my voice interested, engaged. Normal. "I suppose winter's properly here now."

"Been a cold July, that's for sure. You got heating at home?"

"Yes. Gas. It's reliable."

We talked about the weather for another minute—the kind of meaningless exchange that people had every day, that signalled normality and connection and all the things I needed to project right now. Trish seemed satisfied. She finished her notes, told me the doctor would be around later in the morning, and left.

I sat back against the pillows and waited.

The morning crawled by in increments. More tea, brought by a different orderly. The sounds of the ward shifting around me—patients being moved, visitors arriving, the endless bureaucratic hum of a hospital in motion. I didn't have a book, didn't have my phone, didn't have anything to occupy my mind except the thoughts that kept circling back to the same questions.

Had Paul called? Had anyone heard from him? What was happening at home, at the studio, in the life I'd left behind when the ambulance doors had closed?

What was Dawn telling the children?

That last question kept surfacing despite my attempts to push it away. Mack and Rose, oblivious at their grandmother's house, not knowing that their mother was in a hospital bed with bandaged feet and a psychiatric hold on her file. What story had Dawn constructed for them? What explanation had she given for why Mummy couldn't come to the phone, why Mummy wouldn't be picking them up today, why everything was different and strange?

I couldn't think about that. Not now. Now I had to focus on getting out, on performing whatever version of myself they needed to see in order to sign the discharge papers.

One thing at a time.

Dr Price arrived just after ten.

She looked different from yesterday—more rested, perhaps, or maybe it was just that I was seeing her through clearer eyes. She was wearing a different blouse beneath her lanyard, her hair pulled back more tightly than before. She carried the same folder, though. The folder that contained everything they knew about me, everything I'd revealed and everything they'd inferred, all the data points that would determine what happened next.

"Good morning, Claire." She pulled the chair over to the bedside and sat, crossing her legs, settling in. "How are you feeling today?"

The question I'd been preparing for all night.

"Better," I said. "Much better. I actually slept—properly slept—for the first time in I don't know how long. And I ate breakfast." I gestured to the tray, still sitting on the table as evidence of my functionality. "I know that sounds like a small thing, but it didn't feel small."

Dr Price nodded, her expression attentive but neutral. "That's good to hear. Sleep and appetite are both important indicators. Any nausea? Headache? Lingering effects from the medication?"

"A bit foggy still, but it's clearing. And my feet are sore, obviously. But nothing I can't manage."

"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate the pain?"

"Maybe a four? It's more annoying than anything. A constant reminder." I let out a small, rueful laugh. "I suppose that's not the worst thing. A reminder of why I'm here, why I need to be more careful."

Dr Price made a note. I watched her pen move across the page, trying to read what she was writing, but the angle was wrong.

"Claire, I need to ask you some questions that we discussed yesterday. I know it might feel repetitive, but it's an important part of our assessment."

"Of course. I understand."

"Have you had any thoughts of harming yourself since we last spoke?"

"No." The answer came quickly, firmly. "I've been thinking about my children, mostly. About how much I need to get home to them. About how scared they must be, not knowing what's happening." I paused, let my voice soften. "That's what I want, Dr Price. I want to go home and be with my kids. I want to start putting things back together."

"And what about the thoughts you were having before—the racing thoughts, the anxiety, the feeling that things were falling apart?"

I considered this carefully. Deny it completely and I'd seem like I was minimising. Admit to too much and I'd give them a reason to keep me.

"They're still there, under the surface," I said. "I'm not going to pretend everything's suddenly fine. My husband is still—" I stopped, swallowed. "I still don't know where he is or what's happening with our marriage. That's terrifying. But it doesn't feel as overwhelming as it did. It feels like something I can cope with, if I have the right support."

"What kind of support do you mean?"

"Talking to someone, probably. A counsellor, or—I know you mentioned a mental health plan yesterday. And having my mother nearby. She's been looking after the children, she's just here in Broken Hill. I think... I think I need to lean on her more than I have been. I've been trying to handle everything alone, and that's not working."

The words came out sounding genuine because parts of them were. I did need support. I was struggling. I couldn't handle everything alone. All true. What I left out was the cold calculation behind the admission—the understanding that this was exactly what Dr Price needed to hear, that acknowledging weakness was paradoxically the path to being deemed strong enough to leave.

"I'm glad to hear you saying that," Dr Price said. "Recognising that we need help is an important step. A lot of people struggle with that."

"I've had time to think. Lying here, watching those lights—" I gestured up at the fluorescent tubes. "It gives you perspective. I don't want to be back here. I don't want my children to grow up with a mother who couldn't keep herself together. Whatever I need to do to make sure that doesn't happen, I'll do it."

Dr Price was quiet for a moment, studying me. I held her gaze, let her see whatever she was looking for—remorse, determination, insight. The trifecta of readiness for discharge.

"Claire, I'm satisfied with your progress since yesterday. Your vitals are stable, you're eating, you're engaging appropriately. The medication seems to have helped you get some rest, and you're expressing a willingness to engage with follow-up care."

I felt something loosen in my chest. This was it. This was the moment.

"However," she continued, and the loosening stopped, "we do need to put some structures in place before I can authorise your discharge. I need to know that you won't be alone when you leave here. I need to know you have someone who can stay with you, at least for the first few days. Someone who can monitor how you're doing and contact us if anything changes."

"My mother," I said immediately. "Dawn. She's already been helping with the children. I'm sure she'll stay with me, or I can stay with her—whatever works best."

"Have you spoken to her about this?"

"Yesterday. On the phone. She wanted to come in to see me, but I asked her to wait. I wasn't ready." I paused. "But I'll call her this morning. She'll come to collect me. I know she will."

Dr Price nodded slowly, making another note. "All right. I'll need to speak with her as well, just to confirm the arrangements. But assuming that's in place, I don't see any reason why we can't discharge you today."

Today.

The word bloomed in my chest like something warm and desperate. Today. Not tomorrow, not next week, not some indefinite future that stretched out in front of me like a fluorescent-lit nightmare. Today.

"Thank you," I said, and my voice cracked slightly on the words. "Thank you so much."

"Don't thank me yet. There's still paperwork to get through, and we need to discuss your follow-up plan in detail. I want you to see your GP within the next few days, and we'll set up an appointment with one of our community mental health nurses to check on how you're settling back in. You'll also need to fill this prescription—" She tapped the folder. "It's a low-dose antidepressant. I want you to take it as directed, even if you're feeling better. Especially if you're feeling better."

"I will."

"And Claire—" She leaned forward slightly, her expression serious. "If anything changes. If the thoughts come back, if you start feeling unsafe, if you find yourself reaching for medication as a way to cope—I need you to promise me you'll call someone. Your mother. The hospital. The crisis line. Anyone. Can you do that?"

"I promise."

The words came out easily, automatically. Another performance, another line delivered with the appropriate sincerity. But somewhere beneath the performance, something else stirred—a small, quiet voice that wondered if maybe she was right. If maybe I did need to reach out next time, before things got as bad as they'd gotten.

I pushed the voice aside. There wasn't going to be a next time. I was going to get out of here, get my children, and get as far away from Broken Hill as possible. Queensland. Amelia. A fresh start where no one knew what I'd done, what I'd become.

That was the plan. That was the only thing that mattered.

Dr Price stood, tucking her folder under her arm. "I'll let the nursing staff know to start the discharge process. It'll take a few hours—there's paperwork, and we need to wait for the pharmacy to fill your prescription. But you should be out of here by lunchtime, assuming your mother confirms she can be here."

"She'll be here," I said. "I know she will."

Dr Price nodded once more and left, pulling the curtain closed behind her.

I sat in the silence she'd left behind, listening to the machines still beeping their steady rhythm, watching the morning light shift against the blinds.

Lunchtime.

A few more hours and I'd be free.

I let myself breathe—really breathe—for the first time since I'd woken up on the floor of my studio surrounded by glass and blood and the wreckage of everything I'd thought my life was going to be.

The first victory of the day.

Now I just had to collect the rest.