The sudden shift in the atmosphere of the Riverbend General Hospital's VIP wing was palpable, like the air pressure dropping before a catastrophic hurricane. The hallway, which had been a stage for the quiet, private grief of the Ashford family, was suddenly flooded with the raw, unfiltered agony of the underclass.
Ten feet away, a woman was crawling on the polished marble floor. Her name was Gloria Yates. She was a woman who looked as though she had been carved out of exhaustion and sorrow. Her clothes were faded, smelling of cheap detergent and the dampness of the Riverbend docks. Her hair, a messy halo of white, stuck to her sweat-streaked face.
She wasn't just walking; she was dragging herself forward, her knees hitting the hard floor with a rhythmic, sickening thud. Her eyes, cloude
