The emergency room of Ironfield General Hospital smelled of antiseptic and recycled air. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in a pale, clinical white that made the long corridor feel even longer than it was.
Scott sat on a bench outside the ER doors with his hands clasped between his knees, saying nothing. His expression was difficult to read — not quite grief, not quite fear, but something compressed and heavy that hadn't found a name yet. Beside him, Graham stood with his phone pressed to his ear, working through the details of the highway attack with their contacts in Grayhaven City, his voice low and controlled.
Soren and Roy came back down the corridor from the far end of the building and approached the group.
"We've mapped the hospital layout," Soren said, stop
