He looked like he’d aged ten years since the ambulance brought Emily in. His shirt was wrinkled, and dried blood streaked one sleeve. I couldn’t bring myself to ask whose it was.
He stopped in front of me, gripping a manila folder so tightly the edges had bent.
« Beatrice, » he said, his voice rough. « I need your signature on something. »
My heart sank.
I assumed it was hospital paperwork.
Emily was unconscious and couldn’t sign anything herself. I figured the doctors needed permission for another procedure or maybe an insurance form.
« Of course, » I said, reaching for the folder.
He hesitated before handing it over.
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