INT. GREY SLOAN MEMORIAL – OUTDOOR BENCH / COURTYARD – CONTINUOUS

The hospital doors slide open.

Maureen sits on a bench just outside, jacket folded neatly beside her.

She’s staring ahead — not lost, just taking air. Holding herself together.

A moment.

Jo steps out, slower now. No pager in hand. No rush.
She spots Maureen, hesitates, then approaches.

JO
(soft)
A nurse mentioned you were out here.
I figured you might want company.

Maureen looks up. A small, polite smile appears instantly — practiced.

MAUREEN
Oh.
I’m fine. Just needed air. 
Hospitals are not my favorite place.
 
Jo nods. Takes that answer as it is. She sits beside her, leaving space.

Silence. Wind. Distant city noise.

JO
I left them with books and a very ambitious plan.

That earns a real smile from Maureen.

MAUREEN
One adult per child.
They should handle it. 

Jo and Maureen share a brief smile.

Silence settles again — comfortable, but charged.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I didn’t mean to make things difficult in there.

JO
You didn’t.

Maureen exhales, but the tension doesn’t fully leave.

MAUREEN
I know he’s ready to go home.
I just—
(trails off)

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
When something like this happens…
you don’t stop seeing all the ways it could go wrong.

Jo doesn’t answer right away.
She looks down for a moment — not away, just inward.

Then:

JO
That kind of fear doesn’t just turn off.

Maureen nods.
Not relieved — recognized.
She stops. Tries again.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
These past few months… my role was clear.
Show up. Help. Stay.

A beat.

Then, quieter — almost surprised by her own words:

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I don’t really know what to do when I’m not needed anymore.

The words hang between them.

Jo doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She breathes out slowly.

Then back to Maureen.

JO
(gently)
That makes sense.

Maureen swallows. The admission has opened something.

MAUREEN
I keep telling myself this is good news.
That we should all be relieved.

She glances back toward the hospital doors.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
Being here brings back things I thought I’d packed away.

She shakes her head, searching.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
When you’ve watched your child fight for his life once…
your body remembers before your mind does.

A quiet beat.

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
You start to hate helplessness.
And lately… at least I knew what to do.

She hesitates, then adds — softer:

MAUREEN (CONT’D)
I don’t want him to think I’m smothering him.

Jo meets her eyes.

JO
He doesn’t.

Maureen studies her, needing to believe it.

JO (CONT’D)
He just needs to feel like himself again.
And you taught him how to do that long before any of this.

That lands. Maureen exhales, something easing.

MAUREEN
(smaller)
I suppose I forgot that letting go is part of helping too.

JO
It is.
(pauses)
But letting go doesn’t mean disappearing.

Maureen absorbs that.
Jo adds, lightly — but grounded in reality:

JO (CONT’D)
Four kids under four…
we’re still going to need all the help we can get.

They share a small smile. 

JO (CONT’D)
Just… maybe not in crisis mode anymore.
Well… 

They share a soft, knowing laugh.

A beat.

MAUREEN
(chuckles softly)
I don’t know if I remember how to do anything else.

JO
We’ll figure it out.
Together.

No hug. No declaration.

Just two women sitting side by side, aligned.
The wind shifts. A distant ambulance passes.

Jo stands first, offering her hand — not urgent, not rescuing.

JO (CONT’D)
Come on.

Maureen looks up at her.

JO (CONT’D)
Let’s get that water, shall we?

Maureen smiles — real this time — and takes her hand.
They head back toward the doors.

Two women who love the same man, learning how to protect him without holding him still.

FADE OUT.