The hospital is about thirty minutes away, but it feels closer to hours. When I finally get there, I keep checking and rechecking both cells in case Holly’s called. She hasn’t.
Where are you? I wonder, and my stomach does another uncomfortable squeeze. I don’t think she’s hurt, but I know she’ll freak when she finds out she left her phone and this happened. Holly doesn’t take well to being unprepared or out of control. I need to get a handle on it.
I park and wind my way to the emergency room’s front desk. The line is four or five people deep, and the receptionists look harried. By the time I get to them, it takes a few minutes to find out where Mrs. Benson is and what’s going on.
“She’s already upstairs,” one of them tells me at last, eyes pinned to her computer screen. She looks up an
