She glared.
“Good?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “You are unbelievable.”
“You still haven’t answered me.”
We drove in silence again. I was beginning to doubt an answer was coming, but then she said, “It was my dad.”
The word landed. Something in my chest loosened, but not completely.
“In the waiting room. You stepped away. He is why you stepped away?”
“Yes.”
“You appeared distressed.”
She stared at me like I was speaking another language.
“He thought someone stole his remote,” she said flatly.
I did not respond immediately. That didn’t make sense.
“He has dementia. He lives at Long Creek Assisted Living Center. Sometimes he gets confused . . . and thinks people steal his remote or wanders off, ya know that whole thing. I put a locator on his remote,” she said.
“Oh.” That was all I could say. This is not what I was expecting.
“And I walked him through following the beep.”
I processed that. The image was unexpectedly vivid. The way her voice softened for him and her presence had remained steady made sense.
“Is that why you were smiling when you returned?” I asked.
She blinked.
“I wasn’t smiling.”
“You were,” I said as she cocked an eyebrow at me. “I’m sorry about your dad. That must be hard.”
She looked away. Silence again. I tried to let it rest there. The hospital came into view ahead. I pulled into the valet parking and moved to get out.
“You don’t have to come in,” she said quietly.
“Yes, I do.”
“You don’t.”
“I do.”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I can have a friend take me later.”
“We are already here.”
She turned toward me fully. “I don’t need to go right now.”
“It’s just imaging. Are you nervous?”
