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BROCK
Half an hour elapses.
I quickly text Rory to see how her dad is doing. She texts back that he’s on the heart-lung machine, and the doctor says everything is going well.
Good.
Another half hour elapses. I text Rory again. No additional news.
She doesn’t ask where I am, and I don’t tell her. She needs to concentrate on her father right now.
One more half hour, and just as I’m about to text Rory to check in—
Pat Lamone walks out of the room. He doesn’t look toward this end of the hallway where Brock and I are sitting. He walks the other way, toward the elevators.
He stops at the nurses’ station, stands there for a bit.
“Who is in that room?” Donny whispers to me.
“I don’t know. But we’re going to find out.”
Donny and I keep our heads down, only looking up when necessary, to see if Pat is still at the nurses’ station. Finally, we look up and he’s gone.
“It’s now or never,” Donny says.
“This is the mental health wing,” I say. “We can’t just walk into that room. Whoever is in there might freak out.”
“You got a better idea?”
I sigh. “No, I don’t.”
“We’ll go in really quick, see who it is, and leave.”
I nod. “Okay.”
We both rise, head toward room 3520.
The nurses are busy. I reach my hand out to the door and twist the knob. Donny and I enter swiftly and quietly, shutting the door behind us.
The person in the bed appears to be asleep, thank God. I place a finger over my lips, indicating to Donny to be quiet, and I slowly approach the bed.
A woman. Her face is aged, her hair silver.
If I had to guess, I’d say she’s in her late seventies, possibly early eighties. But who knows? Mental illness can affect people strangely.
Donny looks around while I pull out my phone and snap a picture of the person on the bed.
“We have to get out of here,” I say to Donny.
“Yes. We do.”
We walk toward the door, open it, and—
“What the hell do you think you’re doing in there?” A uniformed security guard stands next to the door.
“Honest mistake,” I say.
“Yes,” Donny says. He holds out his hand. “I’m Donovan Steel.”
