A nurse asked questions while another attached monitoring leads. Someone took blood. Someone else called for imaging. Noah was wheeled away before I understood where.
Then I was alone.
The waiting area had been renovated since the accident.
Different chairs.
Different artwork.
The same smell.
Disinfectant, stale coffee, fabric that had absorbed too many frightened people.
I sat near a wall and pressed both hands between my knees.
I should have called the on-call line the night before.
I should have taken him in when the headache stayed high.
I should have made Diane leave before Noah entered the room.
I should have controlled my temper.
I should have understood that his stillness after the argument was not ordinary fatigue.
Every perceived failure lined up in my mind.
Dr. Whitcomb found me before any of them became useful.
She wore navy scrubs beneath a raincoat and had not yet tied back her hair.
I stood.
“What happened?”
“He’s in imaging. They took him before—”
“I know. I spoke to emergency.”
Her expression remained steady.
That made me more afraid.
“Is it another bleed?”
“We do not have results yet.”
“He couldn’t speak.”
“I know.”
“His eye—”
“I know.”
My breath broke.
“I should have brought him yesterday.”
