come to the hospital right away. The doctor in charge of her would give him more details, they said.
When the elevator doors finally opened, Neal limped out onto the sixth floor, now painfully aware of his own injury. He nearly bumped into an attendant who was pulling an IV cart down the hall.
“My wife’s in here somewhere,” Neal said, “and I don’t know which—”
“Nurse’s station,” the man said sharply. He continued on his way, the IV rattling behind him.
Neal limped down hallway and stopped in front of a desk where three nurses were sitting, one talking on the phone and the other two fussing with file folders.
“I need to know where my wife is,” Neal said. “And my baby daughter.”
One of the file-folder shufflers looked up at him. “The name?”
“Becker,” Neal said, trying to keep his voice even. “Ann Crawford Becker.”
The nurse glanced at a piece of paper in front of her. “Your wife’s in 623. Your daughter...” The nurse ran her finger down the list. “Are you sure she’s in intensive care?”
“No, there’s nothing wrong with her. At least that’s what somebody told me on the pho—”
“Your daughter’s fine,” the nurse on the phone said, covering the mouthpiece. “She’s in the nursery, on the fourth floor. Carla, call down there and have someone bring her up here.” She looked back at Neal and motioned down the hallway. “Room 623 is down at the first corner.”
Neal nodded. Now, all three of the nurses were looking at him. No, they weren’t looking at him, they were gawking at him.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Becker?” the nurse named Carla asked.
“I’m fine.” Neal wiped his forehead self-consciously. He had been sweating like racehorse ever since he had awoken from his long nap. “Where’s the room?”
The nurses exchanged glances with each other.
“Right down that way,” the nurse on the phone repeated, “at the first corner.”
“Thanks.”
Neal turned and began to limp down the hallway, aware of the three sets of eyes on his back. When he reached Room 623, he peered through the doorway and swallowed hard. Someone was under an oxygen tent. There was so much gauze around the person’s head it looked like it might have belonged to a mummy. The eyes were the only part of the face that were visible.
They were both shut—and blackened.
Neal hobbled into the room, aware of the soft hissing and beeping of the machines that surrounded whoever was laying in the bed. With a sinking feeling, Neal admitted to himself that it had to be Annie—there was no one else in the room.
Neal approached his wife with trepidation. She was as motionless as a corpse. He slowly reached out and took her cold fingers in his hand.
“Are you Mr. Becker?”
Neal turned partially around—a pudgy nurse had just glided into the room.
“Yes,” Neal said blankly.
“We’re glad to see you. I’ll go find the doctor who’s—”
“I’m right here,” a male voice said. A middle-aged man came through the door, tall and wearing a pair of teardrop-shaped glasses.
“I’m Dr. Rayson,” he said, offering Neal his hand.
Neal let go of Annie’s fingers and shook Rayson’s hand.
