The call came at 2:00 a.m.
I was asleep on the couch in my office, a blanket from the lost-and-found draped over my shoulders, my laptop still warm against my hip. The ringtone cut through the dark like a scalpel—Mason's tone, the one I had never changed because some part of me, the stupid, traitorous part, still believed emergencies warranted old habits.
I answered.
"Wendy's in the hospital," Mason said. No greeting. No preamble. Just the facts, delivered in the clipped tone he used for quarterly earnings. "High fever. One-oh-three. She's asking for you."
The word hospital sent ice through my veins. I was already standing, already grabbing my keys, already calculating the fastest route to Greenwich General.
"Which floor?" I asked.
"Pediatrics. Fourth."
I hung up and ran.
The hospi
