Page 507 of End Game

I answered all three.

Because I know.

Because they expect me to know.

Because somewhere along the way tonight, I became the family's medical interpreter without anybody consciously assigning me the job.

Cami's nurse finally points at my empty water bottle. “Go refill that.”

“I'm fine.”

“That wasn't a suggestion.”

I look at her.

She raises an eyebrow. “Your wife is asleep. Her numbers are improving. Go use the bathroom and get water before I start charting you as a second patient.”

“Hostile.”

She smiles. “Go.”

I go.

The ICU is quieter at four in the morning, but never quiet.

Monitors still alarm.

Phones still ring.

People still move quickly when they need to.

I use the bathroom, splash water on my face, then head toward the small beverage area near the staff workroom.

Someone is already there.

He turns when he hears me.

For half a second, neither of us places the other.

Then recognition hits.

“Griffin?”

Holden Ashford is wearing surgical scrubs under a white coat. He looks tired in the specific way physicians look tired—functional enough that nobody questions whether they're safe to work, but several hours past when any reasonable person would choose to be awake.

“Hey, I forgot this was your hospital.”

His eyebrows pull together. “What are you doing here?”

“Cami is in 14.”

“The DKA?”

I nod.

He exhales.

“I saw the board. Twenty-six-year-old female, Type One, DKA, but I didn’t make the connection.”