“Karen, RN, Emergency Department, Mount Sinai. Your husband, Julian Carter, was admitted about twenty-five minutes ago following a severe car accident. He’s in critical condition. We need immediate authorization from next of kin for emergency procedures.”
The overhead lights blurred across my windshield. Critical condition. The words hit like shattering glass.
I barely remember the drive. Forty minutes compressed into nineteen. By the time I reached the trauma entrance, I was breathing hard, my heels striking the floor like gunfire.
The nurse at reception pointed me down a corridor toward the trauma bays. Halfway there, another nurse—clipboard in hand, pale-blue mask covering her face—stepped into my path.
“I’m sorry. This area is restricted.”
“I’m here for Julian Carter,” I said, forcing calm into my voice. “The hospital called me. I’m his wife.”
She hesitated, just for a second. Her eyes flicked to the clipboard, then to the double doors, then back to me.
“That’s… strange,” she said carefully.
“Why?”
“Because his wife and son are already inside with him.”
