Thankfully, Catrina and Tommy have a car here on the mainland because I again remembered I don’t have any credit cards so I can’t order a cab or a Lyft. Gonna have to talk to Rupert about that—once I’m sure he’s not dying on me. Jerk.
From his apartment to Vancouver General is only about fifteen minutes, but my nerves stretch the journey into an infinity. Every red light makes me want to punch something, ratcheted up by endless winding through the parking garage as we look for a spot. I miss the days of Town Cars and stoic drivers wearing smart black suits.
Catrina can’t park fast enough. When she does finally find an empty electric-only slip, I’m out before she’s pulled the E brake. I’m at the elevators jamming the button with my sleeve-covered thumb when they walk up behind me. The tra
