The first time my husband asked, “Is the bracelet on?” it wasn’t romantic. It was a check, like he was verifying a lock. I was sitting in my car outside my office, sweat cold on my skin, lungs refusing to fill, and all I could think was: why does he care more about that piece of metal than my face turning gray? An hour earlier, I’d been taking notes in a meeting, pretending I wasn’t dizzy, pretending my heart wasn’t racing. I walked out smiling. I nearly passed out on the sidewalk. And a stranger reached for my wrist.
Adah Vance felt the air in the conference room growing thicker by the minute. She sat at the long, dark…