The lobby was bright. Too bright. Too clean. Sunlight poured through floor to ceiling windows, bleaching everything into something sterile and unreal.
Cade stood at the front desk with a football duffel slung over one shoulder. He looked out of place in sweats and slides, like he had dressed out of habit instead of thought. In his hands was a folded hoodie. Navy. Soft. Too small for Cade’s broad frame. Clearly
Pierce’s. He shifted his weight, nervous but hopeful.
The receptionist typed without looking up. “Name?”
“Cade Brooks,” he said.
She typed. Paused. Typed some more. The smile on her face tightened. It did not disappear. It just adjusted. “And who are you here to see?”
“Pierce Reed. He transferred in from St. Mary’s ICU two days ago.”
She nodded and clicked again. Cade waited.
