The ER doors yawn and swallow us. Fluorescents flatten faces; the floor squeaks like it resents emergencies.
“Ruth Lane," Joseph tells the intake nurse. “Chest pain. Syncope at—at the cemetery."
“Vitals en route?" she asks the EMT.
“Borderline," he says. “Hypotensive, tachy, hypoxic. History of—"
“Cancer," Joseph says. “Recent discharge."
“Riverview Oncology," Marcus adds, like saying the brand buys time. “Call Dr. Patel. Call—anyone."
“Room six," the nurse says, already moving. “Let's go."
They roll my mother down a hall that remembers me. I float at the rail, useless, talking to her anyway. “Mom, I'm here. I'm right here."
“Family?" a resident asks, jogging alongside.
“Son-in-law," Marcus says. It sounds wrong even to him.
“Friend," Joseph says. “Everything else."
They cut thr
