The Bentley devours the frozen streets, and I'm crushing Julian's hand so hard my knuckles have gone numb.
Marcus hurls the car through the dark like the city is chasing us. The security detail trails in a second vehicle, headlights carving white tunnels through the night. Woodward Avenue smears past the window, the Fox Theatre's marquee a blur of gold, the QLine tracks empty and glazed with ice. The Penobscot Building throbs red in the side mirror, shrinking as we fly north toward my father.
"He's not there yet," Marcus snaps, her eyes bolted to the road. "We have eight minutes. Maybe less."
"Faster," Julian says.
"She's already buried the needle."
I can't pull air. My father lies in a hospice bed on West Grand Boulevard, wired to machines that beep and drip and keep him lashed to th
