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I look up as a woman in light blue scrubs hands me a clipboard.
“Is that your husband in there?”
I shake my head.
“Brother, boyfriend?”
Boyfriend?
Maybe it’ll get me somewhere to say he is.
“Yes. My boyfriend.”
“Good. I’m going to need you to fill this out for him.”
“I don’t know anything about his insurance, or…” I shake my head. “I don’t know anything. Don’t know anything.”
“Start with his name and birthdate. That’s all we need.”
Birthdate. I don’t know his birthdate.
Last name. O’Connor.
First name. Ronan.
I hand it back to her. “I’m sorry, I just…”
“It’s okay. Do you know his place of employment?”
“He’s a real estate developer, just moved here from Glasgow. I know he’s got a deal with Black, Inc. I’m sorry. I just can’t think.” Did he tell me? Did he? I rack my brain. “O’Connor, Inc. No. O’Connor Enterprise.”
“That’s fine. We’ll figure the rest out. Is there anything we can get you? A glass of water? A cup of coffee?”
“I should go home and change.”
“That’s fine. We probably won’t know anything for a while.”
“I can’t leave him. He doesn’t have any family here. His mother and father are in Scotland, and his grandmother’s in New Orleans.”
“All right, ma’am. Have a seat. If you need anything, let me know.”
I gulp. Sit down. Only one magazine sits on the table next to me. Field and Stream.
I pick it up, open it, stare at the glossy pages.
But I see nothing.
I see only the blood. Ronan’s blood. His pallid face.
And I wonder how I will get through this.
…
Half an hour later—or could be five minutes, for all I know—someone comes out to see me. “Ronan O’Connor?”
I rise, nearly losing my footing. “That’s me.”
“Are you family?” she asks.
