Chapter 3

I watched Michael leave, the door clicking shut behind him with a sense of finality. Karen was still glaring at me, words forming on her lips, but I didn't want to hear them. The hospital room suddenly felt suffocating. My premonitions had given me a terrible gift: clarity. And with clarity came the understanding that this family unit, as it was, was toxic to my survival.

"I need some air," I said, pushing the thin hospital blanket aside. My legs felt weak, but determination fueled me.

"Sarah, you can't just get up!" Karen protested, but her voice lacked its usual force. My earlier defiance had unsettled her.

I ignored her and slowly made my way to the small window, leaning against the sill. The view was of a brick wall, but it was outside. It was a step away from them. That felt like a small liberation.

Later that day, after the doctor had cleared me for short walks in the hallway, I encountered them – the gossiping nurses, Mrs. Henderson from two doors down visiting her husband. Their whispers followed me like shadows.

"That's Sarah Thompson... Miller, I mean. Such a shame about the accident."

"Heard she was driving recklessly." A lie, but one Jessica or Karen might subtly encourage.

"And her poor husband, Michael. And her sister, Jessica, such a sweet girl, always by his side."

The narrative was already being spun. Sarah, the unstable one. Jessica, the saint. The societal judgment, quick and uninformed, was a familiar pressure. In my "previous life," I'd let it crush me.

This time, I stopped. I turned to face Mrs. Henderson, whose voice had been the loudest.

"Mrs. Henderson," I said, my voice calm but firm. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't spread rumors about my accident or my family. It's a private matter."

She looked flustered, her cheeks reddening. "Well, I never! Just expressing concern."

"Your concern is noted," I said, holding her gaze. "But speculation can be harmful. I'm sure you understand."

The other whispers died down. I had set a boundary. It felt good. Empowering.

I continued my walk, shaking off the lingering negativity. My focus wasn't on them. It was on the path ahead, the one I had to carve out for myself, away from the life my premonitions had shown me. There was a strange peace in that solitude, in that singular focus.

Michael avoided me for the rest of my hospital stay. Messages were relayed through nurses or, once, through his secretary calling to say he was "tied up in meetings" but sent his "best." The emotional distance was palpable, a confirmation of his detachment. He was likely being managed by Jessica and Karen, fed their version of my "instability."

Once discharged, I threw myself into the only thing that felt real, the only thing that was truly mine: my work. My small apartment, a place I' d kept even after marrying Michael for late nights working on stories, became my sanctuary. I needed to get back on my feet, prove I was capable, especially with the Pioneer Grant deadline looming.

My editor, Dave, called a team meeting a week after I was back. "Alright team," he said, his voice booming in the small conference room. "We've got a major opportunity. The Pioneer Grant for Investigative Journalism. National recognition, substantial funding. But it's a tough one. Requires long-term commitment, potentially relocating to a remote area for an extended period to cover an underreported crisis."

He detailed the potential assignments. One caught my attention immediately: an environmental crisis in a place called Havenwood, a former coal-mining town, where a corporation named Apex Industries was allegedly poisoning the water supply.

The grant. It wasn't just a career opportunity anymore. It was an escape. It was a purpose. My premonitions had shown me a life erased, a voice silenced. This grant, this investigation in Havenwood, was a chance to have a voice, to make a difference, to reclaim not just my life, but my meaning. It was about contribution, something bigger than the petty dramas of my family.

I looked around the room. Some of my colleagues shifted uncomfortably. Remote area. Long-term. It was a big ask. One or two murmured about family commitments, about the difficulty.

Their reluctance only solidified my resolve. This was for me.

I raised my hand. "Dave, I want to apply for the Havenwood assignment."

All eyes turned to me. Dave raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in his expression. "Sarah? You sure? You just got back. And Havenwood... it's rough. Isolated."

"I'm sure," I said, my voice steady. "I want to tell that story. I feel a responsibility to it." I thought of the people in my premonitions, their lives dismissed. I wouldn't let that happen to the people of Havenwood. Or to myself. This was a rejection of the domestic cage they' d tried to keep me in.

Dave smiled, a genuine smile of approval. "Attagirl. I knew you had the fire for it." Then, his expression grew more serious. "But Sarah, this isn't a short gig. We're talking six months, maybe longer. What about... what about Michael? Your personal life?"

The unspoken question hung in the air: Would my unstable marriage, my recent trauma, interfere?

I met his gaze directly. "I'll manage my personal affairs, Dave. This assignment is my priority." The words felt true, liberating.

He nodded, satisfied. "Alright then. Get your proposal in by the end of the month. If you get it, you'd be looking to head out there by early December."

Early December. A clear timeline. A new beginning. A wave of relief and joy washed over me, so potent it almost made me dizzy. This was it. My way out. My way forward.