The sodium lamps in the back corner of the Riverside Medical Center lot had been flickering for weeks, and on that Thursday night they finally surrendered, leaving a rectangle of darkness between the last row of cars and the scrubby belt of woods.
Amy Fong noticed the outage as she pushed through the staff exit at half past eleven, heels tapping across the damp asphalt. She shifted her tote bag higher on her shoulder, keys already threaded between her knuckles, standard precaution after two years of late shifts.
The November air nipped at her cheeks and slid under the collar of her thin scrub top, but she walked faster for warmth, not fear; security had swept through twenty minutes earlier, or so the chirping radio at the nurses’ station had claimed.
Her silver Corolla sat alone beneath
