Mac sat alone in the waiting room at Swedish Medical Center. When they rushed Dee out with an oxygen mask over her face, he was sure he’d never see her again, at least not alive. He’d called a cab he couldn’t afford to take him to the hospital, alternately fretting and praying all the way.
There was little he could do, other than wait. The nurse at the front desk in the intensive care unit—a young Latino guy with a beard—said he wouldn’t be able to see Dee because he wasn’t family, but that he would keep Mac posted on her condition.
She’d been immediately rushed into surgery, and all Mac knew was that they were probably, at the very least, going to place a stent in her heart, to join the pair she already had in there. Beyond that, who knew?
Surely they’d make her better. Good as new.
R
