“St. Clement's," Evelyn told the driver, voice cool, decisive. “Side entrance. Call Sister Maris. Tell her I'm collecting an old debt."
“Yes, Luna," the driver said, already turning.
Nancy's head lolled against Laurel's shoulder. Her breath rasped through the cannula. Laurel kept her palm on Nancy's forearm, counting the strokes with her thumb: one, two, three.
“Warm," Nancy murmured. “Feels like a lap."
“I'm your lap," Laurel said, trying to make her mouth smile. “Bossy lap. Breathe for it."
Evelyn's eyes tracked the traffic; her phone buzzed, buzzed again. She didn't look at it. “Ben is handling the noise," she said, almost to herself.
“I don't care about the noise," Laurel said.
“You will," Evelyn replied. “Later. For now, we walk through the door."
St. Clement's had old stone,
